Izarra Viret }{ D10 }{ FIN

"Tough hands, tough feet, tough heart."

My mother taught the saying to me many years ago. She would lazily trace her finger upon her hand as she whispered it to herself more than me. Her steely brown eyes were fixated upon something beyond the present. She held me tight against her, trying to will herself not to care about the man who left her alone with me and my starving eyes. My mother, though her hands and feet were indeed tough from work, did not have a tough heart.

Her heart was soft, tender and pliable. My father took advantage of the vulnerability, and gathered her into his hands. His dark features drew her in, and together they fell into the depths of marriage and lust. Together they created a small pack of children that followed them with great earnest. The eldest, myself, with my mother's deep eyes and frazzled hair and my father's sharp nose and large ears. I sat by and gathered my growing number of siblings, as the smiles slowly faded from their once bright faces.

When I was six, my father offered to teach me how to play the banjo, his calloused hands guided mine. The first cord was shrill, and carefully he tuned it to perfection. The second cord fumbled and he looked at me with encouraging eyes. "It's okay Izzy. Try again." This time, my fingers carefully strummed a cord, and my father smiled widely, showing off rows of pearly white teeth. 

"You did it."

I beamed back at him and played the cord a few more times. My father was reaching for the banjo to show me another, when my mother appeared in the door way. The smile faded quickly from his face and his eyes. He hardened himself as she began to scold. Better things to do.. bla... blah... bal... 

I don't remember the fight, I don't remember the words exchanged, but I remember him leaving and I remember causing it. As he walked out of the house, my small hands gripped the banjo with white knuckles and my lip trembled in fear. I knew he would not be returning and I knew it was all my fault.

My mother sat by the door for many days as my siblings and I screeched for help. The youngest could barely walk on his own, but we tried our beast to get our mother back from her stupor. Finally, after nearly a week of being completely ignored by her, my mother accepted my father would not return, and turned with sorrowful eyes, muttering her phrase of grief.

"Tough hands, tough feet, tough heart."

She immediately took a job as a farm hand, and within a year, I had joined her. Even at a young age, I knew that money would not be cheap. Blisters soon covered my hands, aching with each grasp as  I wrangled pigs, fed chickens, built fences or did whatever busywork Mr. Groves left for us. Some days I would be sent home, told there was nothing a twelve year old could help with, and  I'd rejoice for a moment, pleased my hands were spared, only for a sharp pain in my stomach to remind me of the importance of my work. 

Mr. Groves was a kind man, his compassion lead to him hiring most of my siblings soon after he came of age. His family had great success, with a farm stretching many acres. He mostly dealt with pigs and the various meats they provided and sold them directly to the capitol. His wife, on the other hand, was vicious, her shrill voice sending shivers down my spine. She whined constantly of the "help" not working hard enough as we trekked through mud and manure to feed the pigs.

Mr. Groves once stopped by as I helped a mother pig give birth to a litter. His warm eyes landed upon me, as I lifted the runt closer to his mother's stomach. "Don't worry, Darling, he'll be okay," he said with a smile, "Even the smallest find their place in the world."

I blushed slightly, and quickly realized that I was covered in muck from the waist down and my wild black hair was like a thicket upon my head. All I could manage was a soft, "Yes sir," and stare back into his deep brown eyes. He then turned on his heels and walked off while tucking his cowboy hat firmly over his dark hair. 

I spent that night confused, thinking of him as my body trembled from a new energy. In that moment conversation, it was almost as if I had a father.