THE LUMBERJACK

THE LUMBERJACK…

Sat at his kitchen table.

He popped the top on the ice-cold beer he had just pulled from the fridge, slowly placed the rim to his parched lips, tilted the bottle, and relaxed as the golden nectar trickled down the back of his throat.

The moment was symbolic; he was swallowing the ice-cold satisfaction of a hard week’s work. That same liquid, in all of its bubbling, refreshing glory, it never tasted so satisfying at any other time of the week. It was only after it was earned, after his axe had served purpose through the split of hundreds of logs that it felt like a reward. It was only after his bills were paid, each payment scorched into his calloused hands by the axe’s handle…

That he sat at that kitchen table in glory.