Page 1 of The Forbidden Summer
Van
Damn, that’s some hard wood. No matter how many times I whack it, I can’t seem to finish it off.
Raising the axe over my shoulder, I take another swing at the log, finally making the smallest fissure. My next swing chips away at it, widening the crack, and the following blow splits it in half.
“Fucking finally,” I huff, wiping sweat from my brow. Why am I even bothering? Wood this dense isn’t going to carve well. Last summer at the county fair, I watched a guy carve stumps into intricate art with nothing but a chainsawand chisel. I must’ve stood there for hours, watching him shape something from nothing, guessing what the final piece would turn into.
When I left that night, I was sure I wanted to try it for myself.
And here I am, still trying. And not half-bad, either.
The pieces I’ve sold have kept me afloat, enough so that I haven’t had to work while attending community college. It also means I’ve had to show up at every craft fair and festival within three counties, instead of taking holidays or long weekends off from school.
But this summer is different. Summers are sacred. It’s my time with Père—a chance to get away and leave everything behind. To catch up on all the little things we miss out on during the year.
A pang of nostalgia hits me hard. There was a time when we shared everything—every Sunday dinner, every school project, every soccer game, every good and bad day. Père practically raised me. But when my mom remarried and we moved away, things changed.
Now, it’s different. The distance between us isn’t just miles—it’s a gap that started when I was forced to grow up too fast. The visits have become fewer, the conversations less frequent. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss those days when it was just him and me.
I can hear Père’s voice from the porch, calling my name in that deep, gravelly way that’s graced my dreams since puberty. I pause for a moment, letting the axe fall to the ground beside me.
“Coming,” I shout back, wiping the sweat from my forehead once more.
I stretch my shoulders, feeling the tight muscles protest after hours of work. When I make my way to the porch, I find himleaning back in his chair, a cold beer in hand, the sun beginning to dip low in the sky.
“Look at you,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Making a dent in that old oak. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
I nod, sitting next to him. “Yeah, it does. You finished unpacking the supplies?”
He shrugs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Plenty of time for work later. The whole point of the cabin is not to rush anything. How’s the carving going? Still making that art?”
I chuckle, rubbing my hands together. “Trying. It’s a work in progress.”
Père’s dark eyes twinkle, a silent approval hidden behind his tough exterior. “You know, when I was your age, I thought I had it all figured out, too. But it’s not the carving, or the wood, or the hustle—it’s what you build with your own hands that matters.”
Like that rocking chair he’s sitting in, and the new deck that wraps around two sides of the cabin we built three years ago.
I feel a flicker of something deep inside me—both warmth and a knot of uncertainty. He’s always had this way of speaking, like the answer is simple, even if it’s not. “I’m still figuring that part out, Père.”
He nods knowingly, his expression softening for a moment. “Just keep carving, son. In the end, you’ll find your shape.”
My shape?It probably looks a lot like him. Père raised me, but he didn’t try to mold me into his image. He encouraged me to dig deep, to find that spark inside that would push me to do great things. He never expected me to follow in his footsteps, just to forge my own path.
But, in the end, I’m so much like him it’s almost ironic, considering we’re not biologically related. I have his hands,worn and calloused from years of hard work. His eyes, a bit too serious when I’m lost in thought. His quiet strength, the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt. And his stubbornness—the way he doesn’t quit, even when it’s easier to walk away.
It’s funny how nature doesn’t always have to play a part in the people who raise you. I could’ve easily turned out to be someone else, someone completely different from him. Someone like my mother or her husband. But I never did. Somewhere along the way, I became his grandson in every way that mattered.
I glance at him, catching the hint of pride in his eyes, and I realize that whatever shape I’m carving into this world, it’s a bit of both of us.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Pasta. Go wash up.”
I nod and make my way to the small bathroom off the kitchen, scrubbing my hands and face. The scent of garlic and tomatoes drifts in from the other room, reminding me of all the times we sat down together for meals like this. Simple, comforting, and filled with memories.
When I return to the kitchen, Père’s already got the table set. I pull out a chair and sit down, and the sound of the legs scraping against the floor breaks the silence. “Smells good,” I praise, leaning in to take in the steam rising from the pasta.
“Always does,” Père replies with a small smile, but his eyes don’t leave the stove. There’s something about him that always seems grounded—like he knows exactly where he’s meant to be, even if the world keeps changing around us.
