Appalachia, 2024 – One Week Later
It was just past New Year’s when Eli finally came home.
He moved a little slower, his arm in a sling and a scar above his eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. But his grin was the same. And when he stepped onto the porch, boots crunching the ice, he looked at the plaque above the door and said, “You found it.”
I nodded. “Split clean, too. You’ve got your grandfather’s aim.”
Eli chuckled. “And his luck, apparently.”
I helped him in. We didn’t talk much at first. Just sat by the stove like two old dogs watching the flames dance. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t ask for filling. The kind men used to know, before noise became a habit.
After a while, he reached into his coat and handed me a small leather-bound book. “Been keeping notes,” he said. “Firewood lessons. Scout stories. Bits of what you’ve told me over the years.”
I flipped it open. First page read: “Things worth passing down.”
The next few days, Eli insisted on doing the chores. One-armed or not, he split kindling, hauled water, and restacked the woodpile I’d let go crooked. Said the work helped his head feel clear. I knew what he meant.
One evening, he asked if I could show him the way to the old cemetery — where my father lay beneath a stone so weathered, you had to rub snow off the engraving just to read his name.
We brought fresh pine boughs. I’d forgotten how steep the path was. Eli offered me his arm. I refused — then took it anyway halfway up.
When we reached the grave, he stood in silence, breathing slow. Finally, he said, “He taught you to split wood. You taught me. That’s three generations of hands on one lesson.”
“Hands, yes,” I said. “But the heart’s what carries it.”
Back at the house, we warmed stew on the stove. The kind with salt pork and black-eyed peas Clara used to make. Eli took seconds. I took smaller bites — my teeth not what they used to be.
After dinner, we sat outside, wrapped in wool and watching the stars fight through the Appalachian fog. The wind carried a scent of burning oak. It smelled like memory.
“Grandpa,” Eli said suddenly, “what happens if I forget?”
“Forget what?”
“All this. The meaning. The firewood, the hills, what it stands for. What if someday I live in a place with no stove, no woodshed. Just switches and screens.”
I looked at him, really looked — at the boy who was now a man with a healing scar and a soul too big for the world he was headed into.
“You won’t forget,” I said. “Because your hands already remember. And your hands will teach others — just like mine taught yours.”
He nodded slowly. “I want to bring my kids here someday. Let them split a log. Feel it in their bones.”
“You do that,” I said. “And when they ask why, don’t tell them it’s just a chore.”
“What should I tell them?”
I leaned back in my chair, eyes to the stars, voice low like a prayer.
“Tell them it’s love, made solid. One swing at a time.”
Final Line:
Some lessons aren’t written in books — they’re carved into the hands that carry them forward.
