i cannot place my hands around the axe handle without hearing my father's voice.
"what's the matter with you, boy? swing that thing like a man. hot damn-it. do i need to get you some high-heeled slippers? you ain't a fancy boy, are you?"
forty, forty-five years ago and i hear still hear it loud and clear. even now you should stay clear when an axe is in my hands. that axe is coming down hard enough to remove a leg. i have to swing it that hard to fling his ghost away. or to kill him.