Trigger warning - today’s piece infers child corporal punishment. If this is triggering for you, please take good care of your heart.
You brought the wood burner home in a small brown bag. “Picked it up at the swap meet,” you said, with a smile. All three of us were handed a paper-sized piece of wood to draw a picture on. The wood was golden and so light - probably pine. I don’t remember what my sisters drew, but I remember I sketched out the head of a horse. The mane was in the wind, and the nostrils were flaring. Getting the forelock just right was important; otherwise, the ears would look funny, so I took my time. The tip of the burner looked almost like a fountain pen, and you showed us how to use it carefully, by pressing the hot tip at an angle along our soft pencil lines - the harder we pressed, the slower we went, the blacker the line and the stronger that sweet burning smell was - I didn’t like it, it was sour, and oddly sweet, not like a real fire. I held my breath. After we were done, you took out the saw horses, and I watched while you shaped a large board, spinning it around into what looked like an oar. We didn’t own a boat, but wouldn’t that be nice, I thought? To finish it off, you drilled a hole in the narrow end and looped a piece of leather through it, for hanging. I stepped closer and watched you bend your head close. Sketching out words large and even across the shaped wood. Spare the Rod, and Spoil the Child - Proverbs 13:24. “Definitely not getting a boat”, I thought. Later, you hung the finished piece up in the entryway of our house, the words black and thick from how hard you must have been pressing. You wanted it to be the first thing people would see. And the first thing we’d see when we woke up in the morning. You wanted it to be easy to reach for when you needed it. Later, when you were gone, I took the wood burner and rode my horse through the forest to the old logging trail. It was wide, so wide open. Made to be big enough for the huge logging trucks to make their way clear across the forest. I stopped at the place where the trail became straight, still bordered by evergreens, on and on it went here, for miles. This was the place we came to run. This was the place we ran to. I tossed the burner into the woods, my woods. And when I turned my mare, she leapt forward into a gallop, as if silently a gunshot had sounded, signaling the race had begun. It was all I could do to hold on and breathe in all that sweet, sweet pine.
I just keep taking deep breaths. Horrible and beautiful.
What a deeply personal memory, which must have been hard to share, yet beautifully written.