The ax was one of the few practical tools my father left behind. Along with a saw and a gaggle of children, there was little evidence he had ever been there. My mother’s stories of him were sparse, sharp fragments that never spoke of affection.
I can still picture myself peering out from the kitchen window, watching her struggle against the biting January wind. Her knee pressed against a chopping block, the dull edge of the ax sunk deep into a log, her arm rising and falling rhythmically. The sound of wood meeting wood echoed through the air—thump, thump, thump—until the log finally split. Her jaw set tight, her brow furrowed, revealing either immense effort or simmering frustration.
It’s difficult to tell if she was using the ax to free herself from something or to silently cry out for help. This uncertainty isn’t due to a faulty memory but rather my youthful neglect to ponder her life. For as long as I can remember, she was alone—at least as much as one could be with five young children. She split wood. She sawed logs. We towed fallen branches across muddy fields, each child contributing according to their size, as she worked with a saw that had seen better days.
With armfuls of split wood, she trudged back inside, bringing the damp chill with her. She stacked the logs against the stove, and as they dried, they slowly lost their essence, forgetting what it meant to be whole.
I eventually married a man who also split wood. But when he left, much like my father, he didn’t leave behind an ax. Not that I would have used it anyway; I had only myself to keep warm. Once I escaped the shadow of marrying my father, I found love again.
From my kitchen window, I observe my husband teaching our preteen son the careful art of wielding an ax. I can’t hear them, but I see their breath mingling in the frosty air. My heart races as I worry for my child. He’s still too unsteady to hold the blade above his head without risk. What if he were to fell himself, losing the chance to grow into his own identity?
This is a rite of passage for becoming a man, but it feels more like a luxury than a necessity—a far cry from the fireplace, which, while comforting, is merely a treat for lazy snowy mornings spent reading the paper. Ignorant of the extravagance of letting a fire burn itself out, we exist independent of wood and ax.
Years have passed since my mother taught me the skill of splitting wood, nearly as many since I last gripped an ax myself. She is no longer here. I have no idea what happened to that ax. Yet, I still envision her, using what my father left behind to kindle warmth. I remember her leaning over our small, tiled fireplace, arms outstretched to hold a flimsy sheet of newsprint in place, one worn shoe pinning it against the grate. She waited for the moment when the updraft would catch.
With her head bowed, she focused on the flame, looking for that orange glow to transform into bright yellow behind the page. Timing was essential; she had to pull the paper away just as the flame began to flicker strong enough to sustain itself but not so fierce that it would consume the page. Like a matador with a red cape, she would whip it away in one swift motion before stepping aside.
Sometimes she miscalculated, allowing the paper to linger too long. The center would smolder, then burst into flames, and her children, gathered behind her in anticipation of warmth, would clutch each other tightly. Finally, she would wrestle the paper into the fire, watching as yesterday’s stories burned to ash, the remnants rising weightlessly into the air.
As we navigate our own journeys, learning the craft of both love and survival, it’s vital to remember the lessons passed down through generations. If you’re exploring your own journey towards parenthood, you might find valuable insights on home insemination kits and the nuances of conception at American Pregnancy.
In conclusion, the act of splitting wood is a metaphor for the complexities of life, love, and the lessons we inherit from those who came before us.
Keyphrase: What My Mother Taught Me About Splitting Wood
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