I do wonder if he kept them,
all these years later.
When he’s dead,
I’d like to have them back
since I worked so hard
for a whole afternoon
on the sanding, the varnish,
took courage in my hands,
braved my grandfather’s quick rage
to ask for help.
Idyllwild cabin.
Father’s Day weekend, 1982.
Dad snoozes on the porch with a book.
Saturday sun sifts through pines.
Blue jays, squirrels squabble
on the feeder stump for peanuts.
I want to make a gift for Dad.
My grandfather shoos away
my clumsy start,
fistfuls of woodsy rubbish:
acorn caps, cedar sprigs, moss.
He paces the deck to the hobby hut,
gathers a packing crate, sandpaper, varnish,
manzanita culled from a fire slope.
The Skilsaw shrieks as he shears two chunks.
Here, sand this.
My second-grader hands scrub
black char from ruddy wood,
ashing my palms. Dust soots
my red tennis shoes. I taste cinders.
Watch those fingers.
The table saw flays creamy slabs
from crates that shuttled
rocket parts to Cold War labs,
cradles of mahogany,
seasoned for decades.
Grandfather cinches sanded parts,
sets me to work with a brush.
Fresh varnish sparkles.
Two coats, lavish.
Will it cure by morning?
A cardboard box wraps a Sunday gift:
Dad feigns surprise, declares delight.
It’s been twenty years now
since I stepped into my father’s house.
Someday will I find them there,
mahogany, manzanita,
propping beginning and end?