| The Axe We’re flying over the raw edges of mountains. The Cessna pencils in its flickering shadow on the frozen southern slopes. Far beneath us are cabins where long ago my brother yanked off his boots, talked, laughed, ate, slept. There is no way I can change the ending: a condemned trailer, its roof propped up with timbers like a mineshaft, the door locked for three days as he lay with debris scattered round him. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Long before I heard of it, burial at State expense, somewhere near Seattle. Jim, our pilot, doesn’t always bother to look through the cockpit window as he dodges between peaks. It’s his party trick. With outstretched arm he points out odd, saucer-shaped clouds hovering above each summit. At daybreak on the airstrip, we heard about the axe he kept under the front passenger seat just in case any of us needed to smash our way out. Diana Brodie |
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