Carpenter

You escape downstairs into the cave-dark basement, to lose yourself in the speech of hands and wood, to ancient syllables where tools are nouns and verbs. You hew from oak what a child has whittled from your heart, breathing in sawdust so a forest might grow in your lungs. You listen only to the sound of toil, sawing through wooden silences, silences within yourself. Things you won't say, things that would ruin father and daughter, husband and wife. Thunder, buzz, thump - The smell of freshly cut wood, oiled tools, old rust on your skin. You scaffold a life out of splinters, like Adam's ribs, broken. The cambium of trees grow still in your callused hands. I know the words you aren't saying as you skin planks, sweat into grain, breathe into sawdust.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK