The Master

He’s just an antique carpenter.

There he sits, couched among his memories; shelves upon shelves and boxes upon boxes of plans for homes across town, scrawled with names of clients long gone. 

There he reaches, finding his worn out ball cap, his knees creaking and cracking as loudly as the rolling chair he sits in. 

There he smiles, through aging eyes, as bespectacled as the two-window room, waving off a fly and laughing softly about an old friend’s joke. 

There he lives, amid the sawdust and lightbulbs, in the home of farmers and spiders whose great-great-great-grandfathers migrated here before even he was born. 

There he remembers (and finds), among the books of samples, swatches and catalogues long out of date, an instruction manual he shelved a decade ago. 

There he thinks, walking his mind between the bins, packages and pouches which line the place, studying the screws, nails, nuts and bolts, and all the things that make our business breathe. 

There he turns, like a skeleton key turning ancient tumblers, over and over, a thought or schedule which will shape the day.

There he jots, from endless boxes of pencils which fill the drawers and cabinets in a desk twice my age, a list for the next job.

There he calls, and chats and grins, placing an order which to me is as sacred as a blessing or a baptism.

There he is. He’s just an antique carpenter. And I love him.