Maul

I used to hate chopping wood for the fireplace when I was ten, twelve, fifteen. I even used to get angry about having to do it every summer. "Why can't we have electric heaters? I want to go swimming!" Well, my mom still doesn't have electric heat in her house, even now. Yep. 2009. But for some crazy reason, when I visit her in the summer, when I swing a heavy maul to split the placeholder before me my shoulders are relaxed and there is a smile on my face. And every now and then, when I bend over to pick up another piece of wood, a little fleck of sweat drips off my forehead. My smile vanishes, and I briefly remember the boy that was. Humiliated in that odd way that one can be humiliated when there is no one around to laugh, I go back to my task. I put the log up on the block, aim, and then swing the maul crushing the dreams that didn't pan out into sawdust beneath my strongest blow.