Wesley Mattson Writes

I dream one day of owning a wooden object, exquisitely crafted by an old and respected artisan. The more money I can save to give him, the more of his pain and memories he will put inside it. The heavier it will be. The layman who passes me on the road will not blink or double-take at my walking stick. But I will feel its weight digging holes in the ground. Narrow in diameter and shallow in depth they may be, these holes will be wider and deeper than any on the dirt road.

Wide and deep enough to look behind me every now and again, and smile.