The Wheelbarrow

      An old wheelbarrow lay overturned beside a dilapidated shed. It was rusted; the tire was flat; the handles had been broken into splinters. Imagine everything it had experienced, and imagine what it could tell you if it remembered.

      Its early life began in the fiery womb of a foundry, where its steel body took shape. Soon, it was assembled, given arms and legs and a wheel, its namesake mechanism. Afterward, it was shipped to a store, where it waited amongst the lawn mowers and shovels, the leaf blowers and the weed-whackers. Eventually, though, came the wheelbarrow's day to take its leave of the store.

      Its wheel turned and squeaked delightedly out into the sunlight, which reflected off its brilliant metallic surface. A pair of hands pushed it towards a vehicle with four wheels. (Four! How could it be possible?) In a brief moment of confusion, the wheelbarrow floated on two pairs of hands, suspended above the ground. It quickly, but gently, came to rest in the belly of the four-wheeled machine, which clicked and thudded and shrieked into a roar that mellowed into a steady purr.

      And for a short while, the wheelbarrow waited again.

      It hit the driveway with a wince-inducing clang. The humble, one-wheeled cart landed upside-down in its new owner's careless attempt to extract it from his truck with only one hand. The edge of the wheelbarrow's metal basin gained a scratch – it's first sign of use. A pair of hands awkwardly righted the gardening instrument and pushed it back to a shed where it waited a few days more.

      Rain came and rain went, and the soil was left soft and damp. Squishy footsteps approached and gave way to a new set of hands that firmly took hold of the wheelbarrow's handles. The hands guided it to a small mulchy patch of earth. A few ceramic pots thudded gently into the wheelbarrow's stiff and open embrace while the plants that they contained stirred restlessly in the breeze.

      A great weight bore down on the wheel and support rods, but the single-wheeled cart held together sturdily. With a grunt, the hands returned to the handles and guided the cart off through mud, grass, and shallow puddles to another nondescript patch of ground. The pots went as quickly as they came, but the wet grass and soil clung stubbornly to the wheelbarrow's singular rubber tire.

      A sigh was heard, and footsteps carried the hands off, leaving the wheelbarrow alone by a newly-planted flowerbed.

      Days and nights passed, filled with either thankless work or excruciating boredom from having nothing to do. The wheelbarrow was shuttled about as a ferry for flowerpots or a barge for birdseed bags. Some days it rested in the shed, others in whatever corner of the yard it had been left in.

      But a new day came. A small pair of feet came plodding into the yard, followed by a figure of much greater stature. “Can I ride in it?” chirped a voice. No voice replied, but a weight and a warmth suddenly came to rest in the wheelbarrow. A shriek of delight echoed.

      Then the cart's wheel began to turn. At first it groaned, but soon seemed to squeak with delight. The child and her chariot raced around the yard, dodging stumps and flattening weeds. Though the chariot's wheel began to slow, and reluctantly halted when its legs were lowered to the soil again.

      The hands that pushed the wheelbarrow had grown tired. The little charioteer, although disappointed, waved a warm goodbye to her shining, one-wheeled chariot.

      This is perhaps one of the many things that the wheelbarrow would tell you, if it could remember.