You are four years old. Your father hands you a brick. He says, “This is lighter than it feels.”

You are in a garage. The walls are cluttered with newspaper – photos of aftermaths. Rusted tools hang from the ceiling. The concrete floor is splattered with grease. Your father grunts against a band saw. Sawdust floats into your breath.

You drop the brick while you are testing its lightness. You stare at the blood. You stare at your separation. Your toenail ripped off. The flesh underneath is hot pink. You can’t remember if you cried.

Your father begins sanding wood.

– Heather Warren