The Axe

          I’m cold. Oh Crap, the fire must have gone out.  I glanced at the clock on my night stand. Four-thirty.

          I walked into the living room and studied the hearth, knowing full well that I was more likely to find an orangutan sitting there than a stack of wood.

          I opened the stove doors to examine the state of coals. A large pile meant I only needed to haul in some logs; a few glowing red ones meant I’d need to split some wood. No coals, what I truly dreaded, meant splitting kindling, and lots of it. Our recent load of wood was quite green, so it took a huge stack of kindling to get a nice fire going.

          I stepped into some old tennis shoes, squashing the back of them down with my heels. I didn’t want to tie my shoes at 4 am, somehow that would make it worse. I headed out to the carport to begin my duty. I scanned the area to find the axe. It was there, lying on the floor, just where I had left it sixteen hours ago.

          “I think it’s gonna get pretty cold tonight honey. Could you bring in some wood before you go to bed?” I asked.

          “Yea, sure. I’ll bring some in.”

          I knew he wouldn’t. But I asked anyway.

          I picked up the axe. The wooden handle felt colder than it had earlier. It felt more like steel than wood. Maybe it was frozen. I glanced up at the thermostat hanging on the far wall opposite me. Is it twenty? No. Below twenty. Nineteen.

          “Man, that is cold.” I said.  Billows of steam surrounded my head. The cloud helped me cloak reality.

          I scanned the wood-pile for an easy-splitter. I wanted to get this done quickly. My face was already starting to hurt. I grabbed a log with a flat end and set it up in front of me. I pulled my coat around my waist a little tighter and was thankful I had long-johns on under my nightgown. Then, I lifted the axe head until it was suspended above my head at an angle that made me look like an 1880’s railroad builder. The weight of the axe itself did the work-if I held it right. I slung it over my head and brought it down with a force that surprised me. It made good contact with the wood and two pieces fell opposite each other.   I sighed, hoping that this easy-splitter was an omen for the next four or five in line. I grabbed another log and set it up in front of me. Just as I had the axe poised over my head, the log fell over.

          “Man, I hate this!” I picked up the log, set it on the other end, which seemed more level, and steadied it before I slung. Whack!

          Yes! Two pieces lay at my feet. The satisfaction of splitting logs was similar to that of getting the corners of my shower completely mildew free. Only better.  I picked up the next log.

          This isn’t too bad.  I guess this is what the pioneer women had to do when their husbands were killed by Indians or were off on a longer-than-expected hunting expedition.  I felt connected to my unknown ancestors. Survivors-those women.

          The axe missed the log and almost got me in the shin. I felt a back muscle twinge as the blade swung between my legs. I stopped, rubbed my stomach and began again. As lifted up the handle, an ice pick stabbed into my lower back and abdomen simultaneously. I put the axe down, rubbed my stomach again and realized that having the extra weight of the growing baby was making it more and more difficult to chop wood. At six months, I could still chop wood with no unusual pain.

          But in the past couple of days, things were stretching, pulling, in all directions, different muscles throbbed throughout my day. I never knew if it was simply because I was a thirty-seven year old woman carrying her third child, or if it was the daily axe swinging. I’m approaching seven months, maybe that’s why this is hurting.

          I leaned on the axe handle, continued to rub my abdomen and felt a rush of energy zip up and down my body, it was like the blood in my left foot said to the right foot, “Hey, lets see how fast we can run to her head.”

          My surroundings seemed to fade away and all I could  feel was the life inside of me.

A thought, or more accurately - a definitive truth, took shape in what usually was a very cloudy brain. This is not right. Something is wrong. Why am I out here chopping wood?

          I dropped the axe and walked in the house. The blue chair was available so I sat.  Tears ran down my neck and onto my breasts. Silently I sat, soaking my shirt as I wept. I couldn’t stop.

          “I can’t do this anymore. I cannot live like this. Something has to change.” I heard my own voice.

          I noticed my hand tremble as I reached for a tissue on the end table.

          I got up and headed to the dining room table, for what, I don’t know. But sitting didn’t seem like a good idea. I needed to move, to do something. I got to one of ladder-back chairs and grabbed the top rung for support. My back throbbed again. The baby put his foot under my ribs.  Was that a contraction? I pulled the chair out and sat down. The crying came again. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I folded my arms and laid my head on them.

          What am I gonna do?

          I don’t know what to do. I felt as if I had run a twenty-six mile marathon and just as I was approaching the finish line someone close by shouted out to me, “ Hey, You went the wrong way, you have to do it again!”

          My crying changed to heaving and sobbing. Hope, something I’d cultivated daily, withered, like a lone flower in the middle of desert. The single drop of water on my finger tip  just wasn’t enough to keep the brittle stem alive.
 “God, help me.”  

This can’t be what you want for me. 
"Please, God!  Help!”

The howling wind in my soul stopped. Quiet.  I could hear the quiet because my own thoughts weren’t screaming at me. I walked down the dark hallway to check on my girls. They were just where I left them, on my bed, sleeping like angels. My husband snored  loudly, which usually created a profound level of resentment, but somehow it sounded like part of a soft wind.

It’s gonna be O.K. Everything is going to be O.K. God is going to help me. 


I felt my whole body relax, as if I had just finished a mile swim and was laying down on a soft towel.

I walked back down the hall, towards the wood stove, and glanced at the thermostat- fifty eight.

Feels more like thirty eight.

           I marched out to the carport to chop more wood. My arms felt ready to lift whatever was in front of me. I propped the door open and stacked the split logs just inside the kitchen.  This was going to let some heat out, but I could only haul in one or two logs at a time. Leaving the door open meant one less task I'd have to complete while cradling a log propped on my swollen abdomen. 

          The fire lit quickly. Thank God. 
I watched the dancing flames from my blue chair. I felt safe. The warmth quickly surrounded me like a lake of liquid compassion.

I am a college educated woman. So is my husband. Between us we have over fourteen years of higher education. College education. 


I glanced on the bookshelf in front of me where my diploma sat, right beside photos of me with each of my daughters.

Yes, I have a college education. I am a certified teacher. I can get a job. That’s it! I will get a job. Getting an interview…..hmmm…That will be a challenge.


 I can do that over the phone.

Who in the hell is going to hire a woman who looks like she’s about give birth to triplets? 


Well, I’m not going to worry about that. I am going to get a job. 


It’s March now. The baby comes in May. I could start to work in August. That would give me three months with the baby. We can bond. I can breast feed her or him. Then I can go to work. That’s not too bad. 
Only three months. 
I wish I had more time. But I don’t, and that’s just the way it is. 

My body relaxed into the blue velvet chair. I rubbed my abdomen and felt the life inside of me move. I pressed my hand on what felt like the baby's foot, and smiled. The pain in my back subsided as the flames grew larger.

 When I have a job, I will ask him to leave.