He Built the Things He Will Leave Behind
He Built the Things He Will Leave Behind
I called myself the supervisor as he and my father laid down the floor of the new addition. My job was to keep the space heater near them. They toiled with tools I could scarcely lift, never mind maneuver, in late November, I think, their jackets and hats navy and red, but not respectively, or maybe. Perhaps that strange beige, too, on the sleeves or chest, that one today so seldom sees. But I do remember fulfilling my duty, tugging on the orange extension cord to bring it closer to their industrious hands, uncomfortably bent backs.
Then somehow it was spring, and as I got off the bus, he was hewing the beams to support the ceiling (“All by hand,” my father would later comment when showing friends the space), the sound of the ax beckoning me to the backyard as I got off the bus. My backpack knocking steadily against my lower spine, I would run to see his strength, to see him turn to me to explain what he was doing; aging, light, something elaborate lost on me. I nodded, watched him take a few more swift, confident strikes, leaving eternal, deliberate marks upon the dead wood.
Out of order, lesser items were from his hands born: bookcases, tables, spoons, chains and bowls now find residence in my parents’ home, his apartment which he will never see again, and at the homes of those who years ago attended the tag sales in our driveway on Saturday afternoons. The same saw he would use to make furniture would be the same that took his finger when he made signs for the town’s taxpayer association. He survived the War, but not his own devices, nor the dust come from years of occupational safety hazards, his hobbies.
And I know soon, not suddenly, but seemingly so, he will return with permanence to Maine and I will visit that room he built for us, and lock the door behind me.
December 1, 2008 at 9:23 pm
The writing on this site is very good. It’s obvious you’re writing from honest emotion, which is, in my opinion, the only way to write. You’re very descriptive and there’s great maturity in the development and presentation of your sentences. I will often reread a paragraph you have written and will glean another piece of information, which is, in my opinion, a good sign: you pack a lot of meaning in individual sentences. Some of your works are difficult for me to instantly grasp, because of their settings and perhaps complexity of subject. In this work, for example, I don’t know why you want to lock the door behind you. Here, you’re clearly going for some mystery/ambiguity, but I, the reader, am really baffled. You do an excellent job describing “he”, but it’s really difficult to see why “you” want to be alone in that room— did something go wrong? was there a dark side to this handy-man? or do you just like to be alone to go over your thoughts? You state, “aging, light, something elaborate lost on me.”, but there’s little hint what else is going on here… it’s as though “something elaborate” is lost on the reader… And maybe you’re going for that… but a little more literary hint (though maybe I missed it) would be good. -P