Turned a Bowl From Wood My Father Saved

dad died two years ago. found a blank of teak he'd set aside. smelled like his shop. hands shook on the gouge. bowl is imperfect. sits where his coffee mug was. craftsmanship is grief with shavings. the client measured with a phone app and i measured with my eyes. we compromised with a story about character. wood moved overnight because wood has opinions about humidity. shop smelled like cedar and coffee. craft is negotiation with material smarter than you. sawdust in the shop light looks like static suspended in gold. i sanded past the point of necessity because motion calms the mind. my daughter's school project waited on the bench reminding me time is shared inventory. grain does not forgive hurry. neither do children waiting at the door.

My father died two years ago. I found a blank of teak he had set aside. It smelled like his shop. My hands shook on the gouge.

The bowl is imperfect. It sits where his coffee mug was.

Craftsmanship is grief with shavings. Woodturning does not hurry. Neither does loss.

I sanded until my shoulders ached. The ache felt familiar. He would have laughed at the wobble. I kept it.

I do not need a moral. I need an honest next step. Sometimes that is rest. Sometimes it is showing up again before you feel ready.

The story continues in the body after the words stop. Shoulders lower, or they do not. Tomorrow arrives with its own list. I am still here, which is not nothing.

I do not need a moral. I need an honest next step. Sometimes that is rest. Sometimes it is showing up again before you feel ready.

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