Familiaris

by David Wroblewski

But couldn’t both be true? A job was a job, nothing more—not a family, not worth loyalty, much less love. Yet at the same time, a factory truly was like the world. It contained friendship and grace and catastrophe and victory and striving and romance and laughter and betrayal—if you knew to watch for those things. If you knew how to see those things, which not everyone did. When you were there, you were making whatever it was you were making, but you were also making a world exist.

“All human endeavor,” Drencher opened, “begins with the planting of a seed, and all human profit is the reaping of a harvest. We are every one farmers, no matter our worldly occupation. By this I mean: imperialists, conquerors, butchers, and tyrants.”

Everyone was in some way weak, Mary knew; everyone had some defect of character, some tendency toward illegitimate action. But only a tendency. Bad behavior required weakness, provocation, and opportunity. Subtract any one of these ingredients and the weak remained virtuous—in deed, if not in thought.

“But it wasn’t anything that supernatural. Just natural. Have you ever walked through an old woods and been struck by the thought that most of the trees have been growing there since before you were born? And that every branch on every tree has its exact shape and length because of the shape and length of every branch near it—all of them maneuvering in slow motion to get their leaves out into the sunlight? And suddenly you understand you’re not looking at something called ‘the woods.’ You’re looking at the story of every tree entangled with every other tree, and every rainfall, every windstorm, every sunny day, every blizzard.”

Being the object of such attention, one felt a nearly hypnotic thrill, as if the possibilities surrounding one’s life might delightfully expand or disastrously collapse, depending.

“Nature cares not a whisker for man’s expectations,”

suppose you could do one impossible thing.