A Young Martyr

There I stood, waiting to be told what to do. It was chilly there in the woods and all I'd had to eat was a cold meatloaf sandwich made from my failed attempt at dinner per moms instructions from the night before. It was disgusting, fresh from the oven sitting like a hot brick in the middle of the table, a disappointed family surrounding me, grateful for mom's homemade bread.

It's not that I didn't know what to do, I just didn't want to move. Only a week earlier my cousin Wade had flipped me out of a trailer onto the gravel and the gaping abrasion on my leg was still fresh and very tender. Pus from the gaping wound stuck to my pants inhibiting any useful movement. Dad's anger would have to serve as my motivation. With any luck he would decide that one cord of wood was enough for the day or the chainsaw would break or the sun would depart or the weather turn bad and we could lock the sideboards in place and head for home in the old yellow Chevy listening to eight tracks and smelling of wood and sweat and chainsaw gasoline. I'd hoped that stalling would make it all better.

It was warm at home. We pulled in after dark and unloaded the wood. In my bedroom I pulled my pants off, breaking the adhesion from my wound. It bled and stung badly. Lying in bed was a relief but in the morning I would have to peel the sheets from my lacerated leg. However, I would not have to get wood after school that day. The job was done.