Each year my grandfather builds a wall. It weaves its way across our garden, dividing shed from house in a meandering river of grey rocks. Beginning in summer, he places stone on cement, cement on stone until his back aches, his shoulders hunch and his face falls into the ashen mask of the lonely undertaking.
Then he smashes it. With unearthed strength, he swings his hammer in great waves of intensity, striking until only shards litter the grass and dust hangs in the frosty November air. Panting, he stands among the fresh rubble, his wrinkled face seeming smooth, serene. Complete.