Chopping Wood

The forest had one rule: never answer when the trees whispered your name.

So why did you answer? Why did you return the whisper? Do you remember the echo of your own Voice? That was days ago. Now you lie back, reclined in the same rocker as yesterday. It’s tattered and your hand glances over the same missing chips of wood in the armrest. “Hello..?”

Lionel Ritchie was not handling retirement well. He would just sit in his rocking chair, singing bits of his songs. Sometimes he’d do this all night long. All night.

One night, his wife came over and asked what he was singing. He forgot what he was singing, but he just knew a melody that came to him. "A song about my sensei."

"I've had it," his wife said calmly. She surveyed the room, at the trophies, kitanas, and other martial arts paraphernalia. "You must let this dream go." He kept singing but there was a crack in his voice. He tightened his black belt, and left without finishing the song.