my uncle worked a labour-intensive job
i was told consistency is the breeder of success
i seem to recall of those seven months as though they clawed on for years
stretched the way the wallpaper did from the walls
stretched the way uncle did when he returned from his job with more pain than his
cheque could cure

each of these dewy mornings i would trod his back, my aunt would bring him his
breakfast
cigarettes and rye, both to be intentionally burned
me to count how many bites he took to complete his rye, how many drags to
reduce his cigarettes
each day – “nine bites and twenty-two drags”

on the days i neglected to count i delivered the only answer to ever be true
but one day i wondered
“uncle, what would happen if the drags were different or the bites?”
and he supposed nothing, the rye would still be burnt
and the cigarette would still set him marginally closer to death’s door

he asked me
“what would happen if you did not trod my back?”
and i supposed nothing, his back would still be of use and he would still work his
labour-intensive job with it
“so uncle, why?”

uncle responded:
“consistency is the best thing you can give, but also the most difficult
it is a promise with no expiration
it is life with no condition
consistency is our tool to craft destiny”

i told him i did not understand
i told uncle i did not want to trod if it meant nothing would happen when i stopped
my uncle took his twenty-third drag

when my uncle’s work sent to explain my uncle would no longer return to stretch
like the wallpapers
i did not ask my aunt why she still brought his memory rye bread and cigarettes
she did not ask why i trodded air and counted bites and drags of unconsumed items

zero is much more difficult to count than nine or twenty two, but i counted
nonetheless
and i trodded
i trodded until my feet grew weary
i trodded until the rye grew stale