Free wood.
That might sound good, but this is not just any free wood. This stuff is rotten. Sure, physically it might have some wear and tear since it has been stored outside for a few years, and I wouldn't recommend building anything you want to last with it, but the real problem is what it represents: my soul.
You see, I bought this wood at a point in my life when I was happy and had a young family. I had things to build that my kids would enjoy and my wife would swoon over, saying, "I can't believe I married such a talented and handy man." Plans were hatched; the wood was purchased.
Then, as I began to build, the problems began. I accidentally cut the power cord to my circular saw—both metaphorically and in reality. That shit is hard to patch. The nail gun jammed. The rains came; the plans were put on hold.
The wood sat on the side of the house for the winter, covered that first year. Then the next summer came, and I had work inside the house to do... so it sat for another year. When it was time to build planters for the garden, I couldn't use the pine and fir; it wasn't stable enough to be buried in the ground. Just like my emotions.
Another year goes by, and I left the wood and my feelings open and raw to the rain and winds, with all the sixteen-foot two-by-tens bowing to the weight of repressed emotion alongside the four-by-six pressure-treated posts. Eventually, as my feelings and sorrow were buried deep in the backyard, I moved the pile of slowly decaying wood under a tree, hoping to shield myself and the planks from the relentless pounding.
Now, as my life has completely crumbled, I am moving. The wood has to go; it can't be used to build anything of value any longer. It might be useful for something temporary, like a makeshift prop to hold the gate open while you wheelbarrow in a fresh load of dark fir mulch from the local recycling center. Otherwise, you might as well burn it in a giant bonfire—my tears and self-loathing will only help make the flames larger and brighter.
The black smoke is my soul.
