it’s not kept up there
on the special trophy shelf
with other myriad mementos
his tankard the war medals
silver pocket watch et al
it has no status
holds no pride of place
swinging from a rusty hook
on the back wall of the garage
it shares a dark corner
with an old cobwebbed
trout net
his old tenon saw
beech handle brass spine
still as good as new
honest, a workmanlike tool
made to last in those days,
it beats those other facile
heirlooms that gather dust
hands down
its patina reflecting images
of cupboards once made
table legs carefully sawn
snug dovetails cut by eye,
but it’s when I hold it
using my left
(his would have been the right)
my fingers tucked in,
like a child holding a parent’s hand
thumb curled over secure,
I can see his breath spill
over my shoulder
like fine sawdust and
hear his encouraging words
steady, true, take your time
this is how I stay in touch
him gone now some
thirty years or more but
with this one old tool
I can still hold his hand
*
© Graham R Sherwood 12/22
