Cotton Woes and Frog Toes

50 pounds in our sacks bowed our backs until we heaved them up to the scale. Ice water from milk cans hit parched throats and sent us back to pack the farmer's bale. The sun bore through our flimsy shirts and scorched noses while freckles bulged. Sharp prongs pricked our fingers and clutched the cotton as we wrested it from dry bowls. We prayed for clouds to lend sweet shade or wind to dry the sweat and cool the brow as we toiled down the long rows of cotton. A rainy day brought only delay and the ache in our stomachs begged for our pay, though at three bucks a hundred, it was rotten. Your sister was only two, and you were four— two toddling squirts, mucking in the dirt, who found joy in a great place to play. While we tugged our load, you two shared true fascination with a squat, fat toad.