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Tag: books

  • The clock.

    The clock.

    I hadn’t stepped foot in my father’s workshop for more than twenty years. I told myself it was complicated. It never really was. The passing of time has a funny way of kicking you right in the teeth. We only realize things weren’t that complicated once it’s too late to fix them.

    I stand outside the red building in the backyard of his house for what feels like another twenty years. I call it his house because it stopped being my home a long time ago. The building was red once, but now it’s a dull rust color, with patches of green moss creeping across the wooden siding.

    The door creaks and groans as I open it. The room smells like sawdust and wood stain. Dust floats in the air, passing through columns of light from the windows. It’s quiet, almost peaceful, but empty. Empty of the person who gave it purpose. I realize that me and the workshop are one and the same, orphaned, left behind, empty.

    A workbench stretches along the back wall. Tools are scattered across its surface, as if someone left them there with every intention of using them again.

    “He’s not coming back,” I whisper, picking up a chisel.

    I consider hanging it on the wall, where it belongs. In the end, I lay it gently back down.

    Everything in the room is just as I remembered it. I half expect my father to walk in, hunched over, cane in one hand, and mutter, “Are we ever going to finish that darn clock?”

    But he’s gone.
    And the clock is nowhere to be seen.

    I start walking around, taking stock. Soon I’ll have to decide what to do with all of it. I pull out my phone and open a note:

    circular saw… sale.
    screwdrivers and chisel set… sale.
    hammers… sale.

    No sense keeping any of it. I don’t have the room. In the corner are a few boxes, probably more tools or magazines. He never threw anything away, just moved it out here, in case he needed it one day.

    I’m on the third box, maybe the fourth, when I find something wrapped in a blanket. It’s solid. I lift it out and place it on the workbench, then carefully unwrap the fabric.

    The face of the clock is blank. No numbers. No hands. The cedar wood is smooth, untouched by stain or varnish. I remember the night we started it. He’d ordered a gear kit online and carved the casing from a block of cedar. I sat on a stool and watched him chip away at the wood until he was satisfied with the shape. Occasionally, he’d let me try, but what he really needed was my help with the gears. Parkinson’s hadn’t fully stolen his ability to work the chisels yet, but he couldn’t hold the tiny screws needed to assemble the clock’s movement.

    Now and then, he’d give me a nod, his quiet way of saying I was doing something right. Other times he’d mutter, “Ain’t it ironic we’re building a clock? At the rate you’re going, we’ll run out of time before we finish it.”

    It wasn’t ironic at all.

    I turn the piece over in my hands, trying to see how far he got. On the bottom of the clock, in shaky ink, are the words:

    “To be completed with my son.”

    I bring the clock to my face. Tears soak into the bare wood. The dust swirls in the rise and fall of my chest. I gave up a long time ago, but he hadn’t. He waited. He watched time pass too quickly. Watched dust settle too thickly. Until, eventually, time ran out, and the dust buried him.

    I take out my phone and open the list again:

    circular saw… keep.
    screwdrivers and chisel set… keep.
    hammers… keep.

    “Dad,” I whisper, “let’s finish the darn clock.”

  • Doubt Came to Dinner

    Doubt Came to Dinner

    Edward caught a glimpse of a shadow on the last step of his porch. He wasn’t expecting visitors. The figure began to walk up the stairs, slowly, holding on to the railing. It moved with frozen muscles, wooden planks creaking beneath its mud caked boots. Was this person a traveler? Were they lost?

    It became obvious to Edward that the phantom was a man. Was he real? He couldn’t be sure. Removing his glasses he rubbed his eyes to get a better look. When he could see clearly he found the man leaning against the door frame, legs and arms crossed, top hat tilted slightly to one side of his face. The face, concealed by the night was familiar.

    “Doubt, I wasn’t expecting you.” Edward said.

    The man walked over and took a seat next to him on the porch swing, stretched his legs out, and placed an arm across Edwards shoulders. “Do you ever expect me?” Doubt answered.

    The man lifted his head and breathed deeply. “Smells like you have been trying to whip up something nice. Comfort food.”

    Edward nodded, “I guess you are staying to eat?” The man nodded. Of course he was. Doubt never visited without having a taste. He wouldn’t stay long, but the pot would be less full.

    They both entered the home. Doubt moving like a man who had walked a long time. His boots torn at the toes, holes in the knees of his pants, leaving behind the scent of sweat.

    “I thought I buried you?” Edward asked.

    “You did! Boy did you.” Doubt said, displaying the filth on his clothes. “But, not deep enough.”

    Edward started to dip out stew from the pot on the stove. It was the only way he could not look into his eyes. The longer he entertained him, the longer he would stay.

    “I heard you praying over my grave. Pleading that I wouldn’t return.”

    From the kitchen, Edward could hear the crickets chirping like eavesdroppers. Carrying two bowls, he takes a seat at the table and slides one to Doubt.

    Doubt lifts his spoon and blows to cool down the soup. Steam dances around the air coming from his mouth. “My favorite. How did you know? This tastes like faith and promise.”

    Edward watched him consume his meal. The more he stared the less the man looked like something to be afraid of. He became, in the light, almost friendly. Someone who he could share a meal with. Someone he could talk to.

    He looked at Edward over his bowl, “You haven’t touched your food. You are waiting for me to finish, get full and leave. Yet, you should ask me the question you really want to ask. Why I keep showing up? Why can’t you get rid of me? Why do I always come when I smell food?”

    The conversations paused. Doubt’s bowl was empty and Edward filled it back up.

    “Have you ever noticed Edward, that of all those you consider friends, Faith, Love, Joy, I am always the one who shows up first?” The man reached for a piece of cornbread.

    “I didn’t invite you,” Edward responded.

    Doubt smiled, knowing that there was truth in that statement. It is the most honest thing Edward had said all evening. “Do you have to be invited in order to be useful?” Doubt asked.

    Edward began to recall all the moments he spent with Doubt. When his mother was dying of cancer. The evening after a philosophy lecture in college where the professor made an argument that an educated and intellectual person could never believe in God.

    “I used to think that feeding you meant that I would amount to nothing. That your real name was Fear.” Edward took the first bite of his soup.

    Doubt smiled, pieces of cornbread hanging from the corners of his mouth. “It looks like I am just as misunderstood as you are. It’s funny how we assume so much about ourselves and never really take the time to get to know who we really are.”

    “I like to eat. I keep coming back because you keep feeding me, but let’s be honest, Edward, what would you be without me.” Doubt placed his spoon back into his bowl. “You keep preparing these meals because you need me, and I do not want to control you if that is what you think.”

    Edward stared at him, anger filled his eyes. “Yeah, then what do you want?”

    Doubt cleared his throat and took a drink of water, “I want to remind you that you are human. You are hungry, so when you don’t have answers you prepare a meal. I am not the only one that smells it, I am just the first to show up. But, I am not the one to give you answers, I am here to make you uncomfortable with the not knowing.”

    The man across the table began to sound and look human. He started to feel warm, almost comforting. This alarmed Edward.

    “What I mean is, in all of those moments you buried me you found what you needed only after being so kind to share your table with me.”

    “Yeah, and what is that? What did I find?”

    Doubt wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up from the table.

    “It’s time for me to leave, Edward. Don’t worry, I am doing this voluntarily. No need to get a shovel. You have a visitor. I don’t want to impose.”

    Edward watched as Doubt left his home. He felt relief. For once, he didn’t put up a fight, for once he left a small portion in the pot. He didn’t consume all of Edward.

    There was a knock at the door. Edward sat still at the table. Every muscle in his body let loose like elastic that had been stretched too far and too often.

    He walks to the door and finds another man, barefoot and unbeknownst to Edward, it was morning.

    He squinted under the new light of the day, “Are you him?”

    The man stepped inside, “My name is Truth. Do you have a place ready for me?”

    Edward allowed him to step inside and recalled the words of Doubt, “In all those times you tried to bury me, you found what you needed only after sharing your table with me.”

  • The Bird Keeper

    The Bird Keeper

    Ellis moved with precision. Inside the aviary, he knew exactly where he needed to be, what he needed to do, and almost without thinking he danced through his tasks. Exactly two scoops of food per enclosure, humidity levels at just the right setting, and as he passed each bird he would whisper a greeting when he arrived and a farewell when he left.

    This was his sanctuary. A safe place from the world that did not understand him. Birds understood him and he understood birds. His fascination began at a young age, some would call it an obsession. Others might find it a religion of sorts. He was devoted and gave his life, every ounce of who he was to know and understand birds.

    Ellis lived alone, which no one ever thought would be possible. He lived alone, but he was’t alone. He had the aviary. He had a sister who cared for him and made sure that he had all that he needed. Food in the pantry, a clean tooth brush, and toilet paper.

    He didn’t hear the little girl at first. She slipped in one day as Ellis’s sister was dropping off groceries. Seven years old, missing one front tooth. Full of curiosity. She was quiet and methodical with her steps. She merely wanted to see for herself what was making all the noise everyday when she walked by. Ellis’s sister left the door cracked, her hands full of paper grocery bags and the girl knew this was her chance. It wasn’t breaking and entering. She didn’t break anything. It was just…well…entering.

    When she arrived in the front foyer of the home, she followed the sounds, through the back door, into the back yard, and there stood a building of sorts, covered in see through wire. She quietly opened the door, and there sat a large man hovering over a cage whispering.

    “What’s that one called?” she asked, pointing to a bird with feathers the colors of apricots and smoke. The sound of her voice echoed and she immediately noticed that she was far too loud for the moment.

    Ellis tensed. He didn’t like questions. He didn’t do well talking to others, not when they came out of nowhere and unannounced. But, he looked where she pointed.

    “That’s Elijah,” he said softly. Maintaining his whisper. “Doesn’t care for thunderstorms.”

    The girl got up close to the bird, examining him through squinted eyes. “How can you tell?”

    “I just know.” He said, turning back to his task, knowing that he had already spent too much time entertaining her questions. He was behind schedule and that made him anxious.

    The girl sat there and watched. With each cage he followed the same steps, said the same things, but when he arrived at Elijah’s cage he began to hum, and sing softly.

    “Do they know you love them?” She asked.

    He paused his song, smiled and resumed singing. She sat there waiting on him to respond. After the last note he turned to her.

    “They know I listen.”

    She came back the next day. This time she knocked. Ellis came to the door and motioned for her to come inside. She followed him through the house, to the back yard, and into the aviary. She was holding a paper bag of crackers that made a crinkling sound every time she moved.

    “I brought snacks.” she said holding the bag out to Ellis. “They are for me, but I will share with the birds.”

    Ellis shook his head. “No. No. They can’t have them. Too salty.”

    She looked back down at the bag and wiped away crumbs on her chin, and tucked the bag into the pocket of her blue jeans.

    “Right.” she said as she walked through the door.

    The birds were alive with song, their wings providing a steady percussion. Ellis was already inside beginning his tasks. She followed and studied his movements, trying to understand why he was doing each thing without asking any questions.

    He paused.

    “Thank you for thinking of them.”

    She came over once a week after that. Never speaking too much, and admiring the care Ellis took for the birds.

    “I bet you are wondering why a smart and outgoing girl like me comes over here so much?’ she asked.

    Ellis didn’t look up. He was on schedule.

    “The truth is, I don’t have many friends.”She said.

    “My name is Molly.”

    Ellis began to slow down, until eventually he stopped. He listened.

    “I have ADHD, which is just a fancy way of saying I talk a lot and get distracted easily.” She spoke as she paced around.

    “You have no idea how difficult it has been watching you all of these weeks in complete silence.”

    Ellis knew more than she could ever understand.

    She reached in her back pocket and pulled out a book with cartoon looking pictures of birds with descriptions of each underneath. She stretched out her hand to give it to him.

    “I thought you might like this. I bought it at my school’s book fair. It cost me twenty five cents.”

    He took it in his hands and examined it.

    He frowned, “This isn’t accurate.”

    Molly shrugged, “That might be true. But, I thought it was friendly.”

    The word hit differently. Ellis could not explain how it felt. He was behind schedule, very behind. He didn’t care. Ellis the bird keeper now had a friend.

    Inside the aviary, he knew exactly where he needed to be, what he needed to do, and from that day on at least once a week Molly joined him.

  • Ding, Ding.

    Ding, Ding.

    Texaco gas station. Pleasant Grove, AL.

    I started my car today and got a mile from my house and the gas light came on. The sensible person would find the nearest gas station and fill up. I’m rarely sensible and I never fill up. It’s always the same. Five miles until empty and twenty on five please.

    I just don’t like pumping gas. It’s easy. It doesn’t take up much time. But, it’s awfully inconvenient. It reminded me of a time, not too long ago, when going to the gas station was quite literally one of the best parts of my week.

    The old school across the street was a tall two story building. The outside was wrapped in planks. White planks to be exact, though decades of age started to peel it away. A few yards from the front door of the old school was an out house. The structure was a relic. A monument of a time that was. All of town seemed to move away from that time. A new an improved school built behind it, and now an even newer school built down the road. The school was there before self check outlines at the grocery stores, and before two day shipping. It sat empty, watching over a town that had long since forgotten how important it was.

    Yet, across the street was the Texaco. There were two pumps, and a mechanic shop. There were other gas stations in town, more modern ones. I remember when car washes were installed. But, you couldn’t compete with the Texaco.

    As you pulled up you would run over the black cable that stretched across the lot. When you did a bell would ding with each passing of your tires. Ding. Ding.

    Upon your arrival a man in greasy coveralls approached your vehicle. I can’t remember his name but it was sewn into a patch on the breast of his outfit.

    On the side of each pump was a black bucket full of water with a squeegee. One side was a sponge of some sort and the other was made of rubber. The gentleman with either a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, or drips of tobacco hanging from his lip would tip his hat to you as he cleaned the windshield.

    “Five dollars please.” the financial exchange happened and the man began to pump your gas.

    I looked forward to this. The dinging of the bell. The windshield being cleaned. The place wasn’t clean by any means, but it sure was convenient.

    I didn’t know it then, but this place was the last of its kind. Sooner or later it would join the school house and watch as the world moved on with out it.

    We can leave the out house in the past, sorry old school, but I would give my last pair of socks to go back to that old Texaco.

    Ding, ding.