Resisting felt like the right thing to do.
Fighting felt like strength.
He prided himself at the thought of his battle scars.
His muscles wrought from the struggle.
Until he saw his son – small, without scars, without might – overcoming his own fight with a single word, “help.”
Until he saw his old neighbor enduring the fight with the word “time.”
Until he saw his wife withstanding her fight with the word “love.”
And another soul coping with the word “rest.”
As for the man’s prize…
In the end, all of his time wrestling with his hands had only left him his scars.
The others had their words.
Help. Time. Love. And Rest.