Page 65 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I don’t.

And that’s the point.

I tell myself I did the right thing.

I tell myself it’s better this way.

I tell myself she’ll be relieved once she’s back on paved roads and cell service and civilization.

Once the story becomes something she can file away as a wild detour—a storm, a bear, a mountain man, a night she’ll remember when she’s bored or lonely or nostalgic.

She’ll go back to her life.

I’ll go back to mine.

And nothing changes.

That’s how it’s supposed to go.

A few minutes pass.

I wait for the sound I’m pretending I don’t need.

The closing of a car door.

The final punctuation mark.

When it comes—distant but unmistakable—my chest tightens so hard it feels like my ribs shift.

I swallow against it.

Then I lower the burner to the wood and make the first stroke.

A line.

Smooth. Controlled. Deliberate.

My hand doesn’t shake.

My hands never shake when I’m working.

That’s the mercy of it.

This is the one place my brain goes quiet enough to behave.

I draw a curve.

Another.

And another.

The scale is enormous compared to the reality.

But more and more. I keep adding until it takes shape.

Petals forming with each slow, darkened pass.

The scent of scorched maple rises, sharp and clean, grounding me in the present.