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Over and Over and Over

by Reina Clarete, Toronto, Canada, Age 15

He would rise at first light and shake his head to clear the sleepiness and nightmarish thoughts away. He’d tidy up – what little they owned and make food with what little they had. Afterwards, he’d wake his sister, kissing her forehead lightly, smiling as she groaned and wiggled beneath him. He’d pull on his tattered coat and say to her: “Stay here – I’ll be back soon” as he shut the door.

He would walk down the rickety steps as he pulled a cap on. On the way, he’d greet the milkman with a gentle smile. The milkman was a nice man with a warm heart and a warm smile. “I’ll leave a bottle for you and your sister laddie,” the man would say. He would thank him with a handshake and a grateful glisten in his eyes. He would leave the neighborhood – which was in itself a right odd place – filled with all sorts of folks though all of them poor like him.

At the corner of Manser & Main, he’d meet with boys his like. They all looked the same. Tired, overworked and badly underfed. He looked a little better than the others.

They would tell jokes as they made their way to the Docks. When the place came into view, all laughter would stop and all smirks wiped from their dirty faces. They would say their goodbyes and he’d head off to the back of the yards.

From 7 to 9 in the night – he would work under the burning sun pushing carts and unloading ships under the careful eye of a contemptuous supervisor. There were no breaks – just straight labor. He never minded – as long as they paid him. Trouble was they didn’t always. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he’d look to the sea and the shimmering endless waters, far over the golden horizon where there were places he could never see. “Get back to work boy!” the supervisor would order him. He would stay his daydreaming and offer the man a small smile. The man would only grimace.

At the end of the workday, when all ships had been docked or had sailed off – he’d gather his pay from the supervisor who would hand the few copper coins over begrudgingly. He would take off his hat, in a silent thank you to the man. The man would only grimace.

He’d walk with his friends back to the corner of Manser and Main. They would make snide remarks at the haughty merchant men and the so called toughened sailors. They’d part again and he’d march down the road alone, back up the rickety stairs. “I’m back,” he’d say as he opened the door.

He would always find his sister in the same spot, playing with a dirty doll that wore a ragged dress with beads hastily sewn on the hem. She’d drop the small toy and run to her brother, hugging him happily.

With his remaining strength he would pick her up and spin her around. She’d laugh with glee, she was flying. He would set her down and she’d pick up the rag doll again. He would go to the crude kitchen and find the food he had left there that morning untouched.

“Why haven’t you eaten?” he would say to the girl.

She would shrug and mumble, “I can’t eat that.”

He’d open his mouth and close it again. He never had the strength to scold her. Instead he’d pick up the hard bread and cheese and eat it, drinking the milk the milkman had brought in. After eating the small meal, he’d lie back down on his bed, pulling the musty blanket over himself and attempt to go to sleep. A nightmare always took hold of his mind as soon as his head hit the pillow. Visions of a fire, the sound of a woman screaming and sobbing would fill his head. Then sadness would clutch his heart as he read in a newspaper: “Young dock worker left orphaned – mother and sister dies in fire near Manser St.”

The nightmare would repeat itself throughout the night – over and over and over. Though, he never could remember them the following morning.

Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows and the moth eaten curtains. He’d rise and he’d do it all again.