In The Workshop
I loved to spend time in my Dad’s workshop
in a little shack behind our house
when my bothers went to war
I got to help him
as he repaired the snowmobile
a job that he seemed to do every day
or when he made
little kitchen objects for my mother
his moose-bone-handled tools
were lined up in neat rows of hooks
over the work bench
he would say “spanner seven”
and I would get it for him
his thick fingers held even the heaviest tool
as if it were the most delicate instrument
while he twisted spark plugs
or carved small scenes of robins
into the bowls of pie plates
humming happily
as he concentrated on his work
I would creep into the shed
when he wasn’t there
to sit in the humble stillness
I would brush wood chips
into small piles with my fingers
fondle…
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