My Own Phoenix

I sat in the basement working on my wooden phoenix, with my brother pulling my arm and my hands numb from all the splinters I must have gotten. The legs were crooked, the arms weren't even pulled out of the rectangle of wood, the body was all mixed up and placed in different layers, and the head was cracked with pieces of wood sticking out. Everything was a mess. My brother’s phoenix stood next to my cracked and shattered phoenix. It was all perfect, spic and span, not a thread of wood in sight, it all looked so graceful and well…perfect. I stared at his amazing phoenix and wondered “How did he do that? He didn't even want to do it.” I pouted and crossed my arms; I was comparing my crappy little chicken, and looking into his honorable majestic fire. All he had to do was paint it, paint it in the color of fire I had in my eyes. I continued with my chicken, and eventually I gave up.

The head was still shattered from the pull of force when I tore it out of the rectangle, the body was somewhat put together but most of it was still lingering on the table, the feet were like chickens. Not like birds (even though the feet still look the same) not like anything but a little chicken…maybe even a little chick. I stand up and start to pick up the shreds on the floor, small excluded extra pieces, the crying empty rectangle frame drenched with loneliness. What have I been doing all this time? Chasing my brother’s footsteps in the sand? No, I need to do this my way. I got back to the wooden block, and carved a beautiful phoenix. I realized I can’t follow my brother’s footsteps; all I can do is do it myself.