The Forge

I remember watching my father stop halfway up the driveway because my tricycle was blocking the way to the garage, and how he solved the problem by picking up the tricycle by the handlebars and smashing it through the windshield of our brand new family station wagon, his face red with scotch, his black tie and jacket flapping with effort, the tricycle making its way a little farther with each blow into the roomy interior of the latest model as the safety glass relented, the tricycle and the windshield both praiseworthy in their toughness, the struggle between them somehow making perfect sense in midday on our quiet suburban street, the windshield the anvil, the trike the hammer, the marriage the forge, and failure glowing in the heat, beaten and tempered, slowly taking shape.