Object Writing / Hammer on: October 02, 2007
admin November 26th, 2007
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Started by milbuddy - Last post by milbuddy
Hammer, the wooden grip in my hand is calloused through years of toil, the wood worn into the shape of thumb and forefinger, rubbed smooth, so smooth you could skate on it if it were freezing. Never did skate, where I grew up it did get cold, small lakes would become sheets of frost, but never perma frost, never foot thick frost. We would dare one another too see who could walk out the furthest before the ice started to crack, you could hear the first cracks appear like breaking eggs and would dart off the ice as soon as possible .The danger was small though we too were small - five or six or so- the lake was ornamental and only 3 or 4 feet deep. Rushing from the stabilising ice, our breath would be a cloud around us as we hurried along crinkling paths of frozen mud and grass. Each blade trapped in an icy fortress preying for release by the sunlight. Sometimes it snowed, once again not so heavily, really a novelty, sheets of thick cardboard were hurriedly made into tobogans, sliding down the hill next to our house, holding onto the edges like a baby to a mothers breast. The cold seeping through the sodden gloves, fingers tingling.
