There were Lego pieces everywhere. Tiny bits of plastic color spread across the carpet, on the bathroom counter, on the stairs. It had become such a habit for her to gather these pieces and toss them in the bucket that she was mindless in the task.
Except for today. It was an unwavering gray. Snow was falling. It was late February, so there was no charm to the weather, no charm to her home, cluttered as it was with the restlessness of Winter, no charm in the cold of her fingers. There was no place in the house that Legoes were not, and she began to feel as if she were gathering little pieces of herself, spread about carelessly, this red wing-shaped thing her passion, this gray block her obligations, these little round buttons her breasts. She began to gather them with a fierce intensity, as if this were the only way she could reclaim herself from the familial chaos that had ruled her life for years, scouring corners and shelves and out of the way places. She scrounged for them like coins, then threw them all into the Lego bucket.
She sat down, stirred the cauldron of legoes. She hated legoes. A sigh hedged out of her throat, and in that breaking away there followed a galloping of horses, wild in their sorrow, their grief, their confinement. The wildness of her sorrow disturbed her. She must maintain order and calm. There was no place for this rumbling emotion. She stood up, grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, and walked out of the house.
Outside the air licked her face clean, the sifting hush of the snow lulled her thoughts. She began to walk, down the drive, down the road. The wind picked up, blowing snow in her face. She passed the old farmhouse, dark and empty, and the fields around it which mirrored its desolation. She passed the tall stand of pines that swayed in the wind, and the wide patch of briers that guarded elderberries in September. She walked until she came to the spot where the road and the river touched before turning away from eachother, the road going up the hill to the right, the river turning down and left. Here there was a shore of cold stones that in the summer drew kids and adults alike. Now, it was like everything around her, desolate and bleak.
There was one lego in her pocket. It seemed to be the windshield of some space ship. She set it down on a wide rock, blowing the snow away as if to protect the piece from the chill. Then she picked up another large rock, one that fit nicely between her hands, a solid weight that she brought down resolutely on top of the little lego piece. It broke easily enough, but she continued smashing until the piece was more ground into something unrecognizable.
This is the violence of women, she thought, destroying the things that represent ourselves. She was tearless, cold, relieved. She stood up, shoved her hands in her pockets. The river wore on, over the course stones. The wind relaxed and looped around her. She pushed the smashing rock with her foot, and it rolled towards the river’s edge, so she finished the job my picking it up and heaving it in. She turned away and headed back, wondering when it would end.
