Young Men With Dull Axes

Memories of surviving harsh winters

The men who no longer see youth when seeing a mirror chop wood with dull axes in some distant winter

Surviving in times of war their younger selves never would have imagined. These are the things we’d rather not talk about

Over beers or coffee or in quiet moments when the world creeps in like a morning fog. Painstakingly it reminds us that how far we

Can see depends on more than just our willingness to open our eyes. I remember being young, eyes closed, smelling the

Perfume of a woman sweeter than the strawberries in a Carolina summer. She knew how to chop wood. She knew to

Sharpen the blade just so. How to grip the handle in a way that captivated us soldiers. Funny how we never knew her name.

But we know now how to thrust the ax into the wood splitting seamless pieces that stack perfectly by the outpost.

That winter and the ones that followed when the flakes fell fiercer than usually and the fire defied all our intentions

We still kept warm. Warming our hands, hearts, souls, skin, all from the memory that every war that’s ever been eventually

Met its end, and every lover that ever left still left a memory or two. And every soldier that made it out alive can tell their children

And their children about it all. It was lonely. It was cold. It was barren. It was loud. Too loud. And now it’s all so, so quiet.