My Composition Assignment

By Savanna C

Recently for my class, composition with Ms. Franta, we had to study a picture. We then had to put ourselves into the painting as whoever we thought we should be and then describe our surroundings and life. Some chose to be the daughter of the woodcutter, and others chose to be the wife and so on. I chose to be the Woodcutter. This is how I interpreted the painting. For those of you who haven’t been in composition yet, this is the kind of stuff you may have to do.

My hands are growing numb. I can feel the rough wood rub against my calluses with every swing. This job was a boring one, but it was no longer as taxing as it was when I was young. I remember trying to achieve a perfect split, but all that resulted from my clumsy, weak swings was an egregiously crooked piece of wood. Now, the logs seem to split impeccably every time, as if all by themselves.

 
Winter has reached its coldest, and I can feel the wind picking up, promising a colder night. This wood should last until next month. In this region, the difference between life and death is a large pile of wood to keep the fire going. I have to finish this job before tonight. I can almost smell the brewing blizzard on the biting wind.

I straighten up and wipe my forehead. Despite the cold, I am sweating beneath my layered clothing. I take a deep breath through my nose to catch my breath. Along with the storm smell, I catch a whiff of straw and livestock. In the left peripheral of my one good eye, I can see Belle, the tractable creature taking shelter in the old lean-to. I frown, thinking how lucky it was that she was spared, while her mates, siblings, and offspring had perished in the freezing rains of early winter. Old Belle was all I had left on this farm, and she was the best company I could hope for. I hear her call out and wonder if it’s for her lost family that she cries. I know I had done the same when I lost mine.

I cringe as I get caught up in old memories and look away from the lone, destitute figure. I turn my whole body to look to my right. I can see down into the valley. I used to tell my children that God had shaped this land with the intent of making it more beautiful than anything man could ever make himself. In the summer, this valley would be green and gold at the same time. A strip of silver would run through where the river cut the ground. I had hoped to expand my fences down into the valley for the cattle to graze year round. That plan seemed so far off now, though. Looking down and seeing nothing but white, it reminded me of what I saw when I tried to think of the future, nothing but white.

I grabbed up the axe with unfeeling fingers and heart and put everything I had in me into my next swing.