The ax was one of the few practical tools my father left behind. Alongside that and the saw, my siblings and I found ourselves in a home devoid of a man’s presence. My mother’s stories about him were sparse and sharp, fragments that lacked any warmth or affection.
I often visualize myself at our kitchen window, observing her as she battled the biting January wind. With her knee pressed against a chopping block and the dull edge of the ax stuck in a log, her arm would rise and fall rhythmically. The sound of wood meeting wood echoed—thump, thump, thump—until the log finally split. Her jaw was clenched; the furrows on her brow spoke of either determination or frustration.
It became unclear whether she was using the ax to escape something or to send out a silent plea for help. It wasn’t a matter of faulty memory that kept me from understanding her struggles; rather, it was my youthful disinterest in her life story. She had been alone, as much as one could be with five young children, for as long as I could recall. She split wood, sawed logs, and we dragged fallen branches from fields, each child contributing according to their size, while she worked with an old saw that had seen better days.
Carrying stacks of split logs, she trudged inside, bringing the cold air with her. She piled the wood against the stove, and as it dried, it slowly relinquished its former self, forgetting what it was like to be whole.
I eventually married a man who split wood too. But when he departed—just like my father—he left no ax behind. Even if he had, I wouldn’t have used it. I had only my own warmth to tend to. Once I was free from the shadow of my father, I found love again.
From my kitchen window, I now watch my husband teach our preteen son how to handle an ax. They stand together, their breath merging into smoky clouds in the chilly air. I worry for my child. He’s not yet strong enough to manage the blade safely and I fear he might injure himself. This moment is certainly a rite of passage into manhood; however, it feels more like a luxury than a necessity. The fire in our hearth is merely a comforting sight, providing warmth during lazy mornings spent reading the paper, blissfully oblivious to the wastefulness of letting a fire burn out—living independently of wood and ax.
It has been many years since my mother taught me how to split wood; just as long since I last swung an ax myself. She is gone now, and I have no clue what happened to that ax. Yet, I can still picture her using what my father left behind to create warmth. I see her leaning over the small tiled fireplace, arms outstretched, pinning down a flimsy page of newsprint with the toe of a worn shoe, waiting for the draft to pick up. She gazes down, anticipating the moment the flames will ignite, transforming into a vibrant glow behind the paper.
Her timing had to be perfect; the flame needed to be strong enough to survive but not so powerful that it would consume the paper too quickly. With a swift movement, she would whip the paper away, much like a matador facing a charging bull. Occasionally, she miscalculated, allowing the paper to smolder just a moment too long, igniting into a blaze that made her children huddle together, anxiously awaiting warmth. Once she wrestled the paper into the fire, the stories of yesterday would burn away, turning into warmth and then ash—light flakes rising in the gentle pull of the beyond.
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In summary, my mother’s lessons about splitting wood go beyond mere practicality; they symbolize resilience, survival, and the quiet strength of a woman who navigated life’s challenges with grace.
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