Callused Palms

Always work your hardest.

Not for them, not even for yourself, but for your other self.

The self that is finely wrinkled and no longer works. Instead that self has so much time that they only think about sprinkled moments with grandchildren, nature, but especially about past moments that had come and gone with the whimsical wink of an eye. Your older more mature self. Maybe your more tuned in to mahjong self.

Can you imagine the difference of contemplations between a person who sailed by on autopilot and someone who took their axe with all their bodies might and swings its blade deep into the layers of life’s wooden canvas? Termites had no chance.

Some people have a hard time thinking about what they want to do tomorrow. I have a hard time thinking about what I want for lunch. Yet wherever I go, I pride myself in always remembering to do what’s right, what’s good, and above all, that this is the only shot I’ve got in life. Don’t act like car accident don’t happen, stop pretending heart attack’s never hit.

Might as well make it a good run.

My blade is sharpened, my axe swung high. I won’t let you down future self, pinky promise. Please, for your future retired bored-out-of-your-mind self, do your damn best.


Lindsay Reva

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