The Magic Of Making Good Things

The workbench was old

and dusty and worn,

but there was magic in it.

It held the magic of making

good things.

It bore the scars

of the battle to create,

the gouges and teeth marks,

the pocks and scratches

and stains and burns

made by the making of things.

The tools of his trade,

the chisels and saws

and hammers and planes,

the scribes and screws

and paints and stains,

had all left their marks

over the years.

The old man made

big things and small things,

round things and square things,

things that were used,

things for show,

plain things,

fancy things,

precise, measured things,

and always, always,

things that just fitted.

Patched and mended,

the workbench still worked,

when it came to me,

though he was long gone.

It smelled of his pride,

that good wood scent,

resin and glue and oils,

preservatives and fixers,

of sweat and blood and love

for what he did.

The workbench

didn’t work for me.

I never made good things.

I never had that pride,

and I was never good.

When it was too far gone,

I let it go.

In punishment for my sin,

the new one didn’t last a year.