All to Pieces [Blitz | Mattio]

Xavier Xart

My father’s idea of fun is whittling. Sitting on the porch, striking away at the same piece of wood until he’s able to form it into something, he sips at his tea (as though we know he hasn’t spiked it with a drop or four of brandy). He tells us stories about the way life used to be in a district, before times got tougher and there were more rules. How he met our mother, how I wound up being the middle child because they decided that two children in this world just wasn’t enough. And then he’ll sigh, and out of tea will go inside to make himself another drink.

Today he tells us the story of our great grandfather, who married my great grandmother and left her behind to fight. She never saw him again, even though she had his child—sounds like a real piece of work, right. The intermission comes when he talks about her giving birth to gramps, and it’s then that he taps me on the shoulder. Go cut up some more wood for the stove, ‘s running down. And it’s because he sees me at the worker, the one willing to do what needs doing, that I’m pushed off into the woods.

And I don’t grumble because—I’m not my younger brother. I throw on a coat and grab an axe and start on the long path toward the trees. I give a sigh when I get down to the firs, the little trees that make good kindling. I start hacking, and chopping, and sweating, grunting until the damn thing falls down. And I stand, axe in hand, letting out a yell and thwacking into the damn thing as hard as I can, looking like a crazy person.