Reflects

A man sits beside himself on a bench. He always finds himself here, late at night after a rainy day, watching the reflections of street lights in ripples on the canal. He turns towards himself, then up to the glowing sky. There are sirens in the distance, there were always sirens in the distance.

He sighs. The slowly pulsing lights on the bridge catch his eye. Are they new? How had he not seen them before?

“It’s funny, the things you notice on your way out.”

He agrees, then quickly shakes the thought. How long had he been here anyway? Why was he always here? He tries to look at himself again, but quickly turns his head to the ground.

“It’s always there, you know.”

He knows, but feels as though he’s floating, drifting along with the waves that carry the light across the surface of the water. How much longer will it be?

“I don’t know, but I’m here now.”

He drops his head into his hands, too exhausted to cry or scream or lash out at the darkness like he had before. This is it, he thinks.

Nodding, “this is it.”

Slowly, they turn. His beard is grey and unkempt, his lips are cracked and his skin is marked with scars. Sitting alone on this bench, they look into eachother’s eyes for the first time. Never before had they felt so distant and alone.

Stumped

    Life had been good for a while. One year faded into another, and the past year had been much the same. It was a year of hard labor, a fruitful harvest, and a winter in our cabin, warmed by the wood from the trees on our land. However, come this spring, little remained of the crop. The once sprawling stacks of seasoned logs were so depleted that their only evidence was the sporadically strewn sticks and bark that littered the ground. This is what had recently been burning on the odd cold morning.

    But this couldn’t continue. We knew that if we wished to survive, to create a settlement, and to bring forth another generation, we’d have to immediately start work and begin stocking up again. The last few years hadn’t been quite as productive as those before, so we’d made investments in new tools. We had axes and saws, ropes, chains, horses, and anything else that you might imagine would be useful for felling, hauling, and chopping lumber. Despite all of this, we would see the smallest crop yet. The land simply wasn’t ready. Besides a couple trees, some saplings, brush, and grass, the land was bare.

    By the time winter rolled around again, there was little left to do. In the past, when things had been good, I would spend my days hauling fresh trees from the forest and he would process them. But as the supply dwindled, we spent our days together smoking pipes, drinking shine, and cutting down what was left.

    “So,” kicking around a stone on the ground, and then turning back towards my home, I asked, “what’s on the chopping block today?” It seemed like a reasonable question, as there didn’t appear to be anything suitable in sight. We had just about cleared the lot.

    He stepped off the porch, ax in hand, and sat down on a makeshift bench. Leaning back and bringing his pipe to his mouth, he rested his foot on the upright log. The thump of his boot on the block marked the first beat of an all too familiar rhythm. Singing along, I let out a small grunt and hoisted her above my head. The sun, just peaking over the distant mountains glimmered on the tip of her recently sharpened blade. The crescendo broke, something snapped within me, and I pulled her down with all my might.

    Now, I’m a humble man. I work hard and I take care of my tools. That ax head parted his flesh like Moses and the red sea. And by red, I mean red. It was so red. I’ve never seen blood pour from a womb like that before, and I’ve birthed–I mean, I’ve killed–I’ve killed cattle, I’ve killed hundreds of chicken, once killed a man, and I’ve even slaughtered a lamb. And his bone, that shattered like God himself cracking the sky just overhead. I felt his leg deforming and snapping in my very core. Still, she continued on and bit down at least an inch into the wood. I left her there, not wanting to disturb the scene.

    As his heart beat slowed and his life began to leave him (you could see it in the spurting river flowing from his stump) I broke my gaze from his freshly severed foot and looked towards my father. He was looking down and shaking his head in that knowing way. I knew I’d messed up, and this certainly wasn’t the first time I’d let him down.

    With a soft chuckle he replied, “I guess that answers that.”

I found two of your earrings today.
They weren’t a pair, 
but they sat together for years
in my box of change,
waiting to be discovered, 
and promptly thrown away.