Stanley.

Stanley. I had forgotten the name, until I saw it on the floor.  Shaped like a boot, with its tongue the slotted blade, wedged and set; waiting the skim of both sweet, and knotted woods. I remember the wonder, at how my father could make it sing, spinning blonde curls of freshly cropped timber, to heap up on the floor, — all fragrant and living.

My sweep was not so smooth. The tension between pushing and pulling, father and son, never quite right. I'd reset the blade; blaming its depth, or its edge, or its angle, — never once recognising my own  lack of strength, my undeveloped arms. The saw was the same. And so, through impatience and lack of need, I consigned all of my woodworking dreamsof to the past, to memory, to others.

When the electric tools came, it was already too late. My dreams were sown too early. The mind and the body were not yet ready; the timbers of my limbs still green, and my mind swaying before the influence, of as yet unrecognized winds.

©Copyright Niall OConnor