What my blisters told me

It's 5 AM. I am begining to hate my interal clock.

I have 3 blisters. One on my left hand, just below my ring finger and two on my right hand below my pinky and third fingers repectively. They hurt. These are deep blisters, the kind that form calouses. They are hot to the touch and tender.
   Now, I've had blisters like these before. Of late, doing yard work but earlier, in my youth, from working with big animals like cows and horses. Those are blisters of memory and didn't really have anything to say to me except maybe, "Good work, girl."
  As I lay in bed last night, exausted from the work of the day, and complained to myself about these blisters that made it hard for me to hold my iPhone, I could have sworn that they started talking to me. No, I am not halucinating nor have I finally gone 'round the bend nor have I been moonstruck (although that does sound a little fun doesn't it). I realized that I am not the only person in the world who has ever had blisters like these. Everyone, at some point does and most got theirs not from a frienzy of cleaning but from honest hard work. Continual work: often back breaking, sometimes spirit breaking, and more often than not thankless.
   Suddenly I saw my blisters through the eyes of an adult. They were blisters there because of things that had to be done, and no one else to do them. These blisters were born of responsability and a desire to make things better for those that I am responsible for. What right did I have to complain about my blisters anyway?After all, I'm not the only person in the world to have them, right? I know lots of people who have blisters, and bear the calouses that came from continual friction from work even though the blisters were painful.
  Now my blisters were getting personal. After all, if I did nothing tomorow these blisters might go away and never callous over. That would be nice, to maybe soak my hands or rub lotion into them, pamper them a bit and smooth away the pains and memory of such hard work.
    But wait, my blisters said, you have responsabilities that cannot be ignored. I saw my blisters through the eyes of an adult. A thing to be borne because tomorow will come, and it will have it's own set of blisters to tell their tale. I thought of my parents. My father, who worked with his hands all his life, formed many blisters, and complained about none of them. Even in his retirement, he carries the calouses from those years of hard work, resposniblilty, and desire to provide something better for those he loves. My mother, who worked outside of the home, then came home to work again. Cleaning, cooking, mending, all without complaint, and all without asking for help from my father. Not because she thought he would not do it, but because it was her job, her responsability, and I fancy, she had some pride in that.
   So listen, said my blisters, we are not anoyances or things to be borne. We are a badge of honor and a sign of responsability. May we become calouses, and be there to remind you, when you whine, that all things worth making better will require the creation of blisters. That blister is there to remind you that you are doing a job worth something to someone, even if it is to yourself. That calouse is there to remind you that you cared, it mattered, and you continued when you could have stopped and let us heal. Good job.