Tim Rousseau
Isaac
Papa was off getting firewood and I could hear him rustling a few hundred yards away. There was already a stack beside the fire, but he said we needed more for the evening. I whittled at a smaller stick that would not have burned for long enough to be useful. Papa had gotten the small pocket knife for me on my tenth birthday. I threw a log on and watched its surface blacken and embers start to form in its pores. The smoke whipped around with the wind, briefly choking me. I coughed twice and shifted away from it. Papa called. “You ok?” “Smoke in my eyes.” “I’m coming back now.” “Enough wood?” “I think so.” I heard footsteps in the leaves and he was beside me with arms full of branches. He dropped them and hacked them to manageable lengths with the small camp-axe he had hiked in with. I listened to the rhythmic cutting and the accompanying sizzle and closed my eyes. A crisp wind blew from the trees and over my exposed face. Papa cleared his throat and threw a freshly cut log on the fire. It exploded with a wet crackle. “Do you love me?” “Yes,” I said. He continued stoking the fire and I opened my eyes. It was late but I wasn’t ready for sleep. “I am really proud of you.” “Thank you.” I looked away from him into the dark. The fire flickered on the outline of the surrounding foliage. I could just make out the general shape of the trees but nothing else. “I like being out here with you.” “Good.”
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