We return to work and do so for a couple hours only interrupted by breaks to re-apply sunscreen and check for developing blisters. When Jack's got the underbrush reasonably cleared, his long sleeved shirt comes off. I can see his hairs are sticking to his chest with sweat. He drinks another water bottle, pouring what's left over himself. Then Jack grabs the shovel to help me. After a couple wheelbarrow loads, the pants come off to and he is working in his boxers and bare feet. I can't remember when I kicked my own shoes off, but my feet enjoy touching the packed earth beneath me. When we get to the last box I ask, "Stop for lunch, or push through?"
Without realizing what he is doing, he leans his mostly naked body against the vastly depleted soil mound. He looks down at the deep brown dirt falling over him and mixing with his thick black leg hairs. "I—was going to say push through, but I might be tired."
I look at my dirty and blistering hands. Thankfully, Jacks are a little less raw. He already has callouses on his hands in all the right places. Thick enough to be useful, but flat enough to feel seem smooth. Not baby smooth, but smooth like good quality leather. Tough and pleasant to the touch.
"Ugh.. yeah," I agree. "Let's take a break and get those sandwiches."
"Sounds good." Jack says nodding. He shifts from the dirt mound to sit on a fallen moss covered log on the forest floor. He lays down his back along the length of the log.
I walk toward the sliding glass door into our house, the house I still cannot believe we own! I catch a reminder that my hands, and my feet, and my whole body, is covered the black loam blended soil. "Jack?" I say staring blankly at my reflection. When I hear his grunt I continue. "I'm gonna need your help."
