Issue 5:
Wood
Ron Gibson, Jr.
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The Tangled Root of Flame
or
Return of the Wild Duck
Dad said choosing a tree was like a wife. Once you cut it down there was no turning back.
He met Mom at a church social. They married before he was sent to green hell. Mom wore regret and I was born. She sent Dad a Dear John letter, but took him back when he knocked on the front door.
She said Dad changed. He stopped going to church. He wandered the forest, searching for perfection, quoting Ibsen: "The forests avenge themselves."
Dad insisted it was disrespectful to burn wood. He said it was like a divorce or annulment; burning your mistakes. He carved disfigured faces out of knotty pine and driftwood. Mom and I shivered in sweaters.
One day, Dad saw a Weyerhaeuser commercial. Sitting next to Mom, he watched in silent scorn; stillness wedged between them; shadows of their past selves. Then drove off without a word.
Mom said Dad went far away and one day I might understand.
Aunt Sadie whispered that Dad drove nails through Weyerhaeuser trees like Jesus and burned the rest, and now sits alone in a room.
Sometimes I can see his wild roots pushing out against walls; hands wrenching, burning his mistakes.
~Ron Gibson, Jr.
Twenty-six, residing in Kent, Washington, Ron has appeared in various publications. Upcoming in This Hard Wind, A Writer's Choice, New Works Review, and EWG. Email.
© 2000 by Ron Gibson, Jr. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.