The Woodworker
In the workshop he becomes a different person,
no longer my husband,
nor an ordinary man
but a woodworker
transforming timber into beauty.
Eyes darting across piles of lumber,
he searches for the one to match his design.
Pushing both sleeves above his elbows, he pulls out
a deep reddish-brown plank.
Turning it over twice, he seems satisfied with the selection.
A week later…
The woodworker surveys his kingdom,
enjoying the sunlight casting golden hues
on the mahogany rocking chair,
born out of rough wood.
He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent
of sawdust, ready for the next step.
“Sanding and finishing,” he mumbles to nobody,
twirling the right side of his mustache, lost in thought.
Searching for sandpaper in a pile varying in grit,
he selects the coarsest one,
removing his glasses for a close inspection,
feeling it between forefinger and thumb.
“This will do,” he assures himself,
stroking his mustache slowly, deliberately.
He sands along the grain,
long, swift movements with his right,
then immediately his left to ensure smoothness.
He presses and moves the paper over and over the same spot,
humming to himself
until beads of sweat form on his forehead.
Stepping into a workshop smelling of a man and his lumber,
“Would you take a break for lunch?” I dare to suggest,
watching in awe,
and knowing full well he cannot hear me.
His calloused hands caress and confirm
its absolute smoothness
until the chair declares its finish.
He runs fingers along his perfectly curved mustache
and replaces the coarse paper with a gentler one,
repeating the process, this time with softer,
circular motions.
His back is damp,
and the shirt sticks to him like a second skin.
“Come here. Feel this,” he says,
pointing to the armrest.
“Exquisite!” I declare, and kneel at its legs.
Leaning in, I sniff across its surface,
smelling him on the wood,
and wondering at the transformation of
an impulsive man outside into a
patient,
passionate,
perceptive
craftsman in the workshop.