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| A Labor of Lost Love |
| By Fiona Gibson |
| Etienne left on a cold winter's morning, just as the sun began to steamily kiss the thin pre-dawn layer of ice. Left without word, left with all her worldy possessions packed neatly into her hatchback, she left me in our chilled, half-empty bed with fuzzy memories and creeping melancholy. |
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| All I could do was go about the morning's chores. I thought long and hard as wood sliced sharply by way of my tool. |
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| I felt the grain grind against the chain, resisting my penetrating thoughts, refusing to reveal its secrets to me. |
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| I cut deeper and deeper, realizing that this physical action manifested my tumultuous inner-monologue. |
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| It occurred to me, then, that my heart was an organ of fire. Etienne thought I was numb and unfeeling, and that's why she left me. I didn't realize my soul housed the flame until the advent of her absence. |
| And so, it burns burns burns, this ring of fire. Burns to ash as the sun goes down; I suspect I shall be a new man in the morning. |
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