Monday, September 17, 2018

i think about seasons of longing and dread. think about my father's house long dead. 
six months of winter struggling on the ground for spring, and suddenly it's fall dreading winter. my father had a woodpile that was a fortress. by the time the wood was cured it was rotting, and he kept splitting. when he split his lip with the chainsaw he had enough wood for several more seasons. then he divorced that house and that wife. the woodpile was that life's remains. i hated the violence, the groaning futility of the life-parted wood. i hated joining his grim task. in the basement we burned it, straight up through the blue stone emptiness to the sky. he could never heat that house. he didn't even seem to live there. he was in there aspiring, lean on the mantle, drink in hand. in my mind he leans there still. the flue sucking the heat he produced from the basement air.

No comments:

Post a Comment