Over the fireplace in the first house my parents owned together, the house I was brought back to when I was born, the words BOIS TORTU FAIT FEU DROIT were painted on the brick in Gothic script. Crooked logs make straight fires.
The way I choose to make its meaning: out of something gnarled, tough, flawed comes something with use and power.
Or, even busted shit can work if put to use in the right way.
Or, twisted bizarro brains shine bright too.
Crooked wood, straight fires! It was a cold house, and I don’t remember it. I’ve heard many times from my parents about glasses of water that froze solid on bedside tables over night.