The ax was one of the few practical items my father left behind. Along with the saw, it became a tool that defined our home, yet there was no sign of his presence—or any man’s—within our lives. My mother spoke little of him; her stories were brief, sharp fragments that conveyed nothing of affection.
I recall standing at the kitchen window, watching her brace against the biting January wind. Her knee pressed against a chopping block, she swung the ax with a rhythmic rise and fall. I can still hear the resonant thump, thump, thump as the ax struck the log, cleaving it after several attempts. Her jaw was tight, and her brow marked by either exertion or frustration.
It remains unclear whether she wielded the ax to escape something or to express an unvoiced plea for help. My lack of understanding stemmed not from faulty memory, but from a failure to consider her life deeply. As far back as I can recall, she had been alone—with five young children—splitting wood and sawing logs. We would drag fallen branches across the muddy fields, each child contributing according to their size, while she worked tirelessly with the old, brittle saw.
Carrying armfuls of split logs, she trudged inside, bringing the dampness of the outdoors with her. She piled the wood against the stove, and as it dried, it surrendered its former identity, losing the essence of what it once was.
In time, I married a man who also split wood. When he departed, much like my father had, he left no ax behind. I wouldn’t have used it anyway; I had only my own warmth to consider. After moving past the shadow of my father, I remarried.
From my kitchen window, I now observe my husband teaching our son to handle an ax. Though I cannot hear them, I see their breaths merging in the cold air. I worry for my child; he struggles to hold the blade steady above his head, and I fear for his safety, wondering if he might harm himself before he fully realizes his potential.
This moment serves as a rite of passage into manhood. Yet unlike my mother’s labor, theirs is not a necessity. The fireplace’s warmth is more a luxury than a requirement, a source of comfort during lazy, snowy mornings, as we revel in the blessing of watching a fire burn down, independent of wood and ax.
Years have passed since my mother first taught me to split wood; it has been almost as long since I last swung an ax. She has since passed away, and I have no idea what happened to that ax. Still, I envision her, using the remnants of my father’s legacy to create warmth. I see her poised before the small tiled fireplace, arms outstretched, securing a flimsy page of newsprint with the toe of her worn shoe as she waits for the fire to ignite.
She carefully selects her moment, striving for that fleeting opportunity where the flame is strong enough to sustain itself yet not so fierce that it consumes the paper. With a swift motion akin to a matador’s flourish, she whisks the paper away, stepping aside as the fire catches.
At times, she miscalculates, allowing the paper to linger too long, leading to a sudden flare that startles her children, who huddle together, awaiting warmth until she successfully wrestles the paper into the flames where yesterday’s tales transform into heat and then ash, drifting weightlessly into the air.
This piece was originally published on May 10, 2015.
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In summary, the act of splitting wood transcends mere necessity; it serves as a metaphor for resilience, survival, and the intricate ties of family heritage. Through the lens of a mother’s labor, we grasp the deeper implications of our actions and the legacies we inherit and pass down.