My father was a whittler. If you believe, by trade

He made good work. Beautiful wooden objects

One day, my father gave me a task.

To whittle a log into my likeness

He taught me how and it took me days.

I had to labor on the task he gave me.

A task that I had not decided for myself

But I did it. I did it nonetheless

Between the times of my chores

And between the times I slept

My dreams were of how it would look

And my idle waking thoughts were consumed

On picturing how they would work

To fulfill the final picture

This log was the first of my handiwork

It was not perfect, but it was in my likeness

And it was good

So when I had finished

My father brought me outside in the forest

Me and my likeness, my finished prize

He made me dig a hole in the ground

And to find stones to lay all around

In the hole and circle of stones

I gathered wood, prepared a fire

During the process I was nonplussed

Then he brought from his pocket tinder and matches

He made me light the fire

The fire that would become the grave for my likeness

He had said two things

As the fire crackled, sounds of my crumbling soul

He said the world would break you

So you better not make your life all about you

And you better make what you do count

I watched the fire till my face went brittle

From the salt in my tears

He had left me to ponder what he said

And his words had the opposite effect

I became a recluse,

Prizing my work above all and everyone else

A whittler like my father

I never left my town nor my house

Until one day a kitchen fire burned it all to the ground

Then I understood,

The deep dark cuts I had carved

Into my hollow and emaciated soul

By blaming my father

For the fault of not heeding his lesson

People came out with gifts of food

But I had no one to talk to

I then went to my sister’s

Because I needed somebody to demand

To demand that I recover

In the end, it was still my choice...

So take it from a man

Who has sat on a stool all his life

Just carving blank wood into more nothing.

I know what it’s like to have your weak legs

Be swept from beneath you

Feeling there’s no strength to lean on your elbow

And hoist yourself up

But hopelessness doesn’t intimate weakness

Sometimes, it’s just laziness

Now come, let's clean yourself up.

By Adriaen Thibeault

From: United States