The Workshop

by Lake Walsh

I help my dad upstairs.

I hold my hand on the small of his back.

I wait at the door as he gets out his keys.

It takes a while.

No matter.

He opens the door.

We walk down the hall to a second door.

He opens the door.

Inside: dust, dirt, bits of dry glue,

Splinters of wood, splinters of oak,

Of ash, plywood, splinters of pine,

Sawdust, wires and cords, copper wire,

Solder, a soldering gun, a little dry sponge

For cleaning the tip of the soldering gun,

Chisels, saws, nails, screws,

Shards of glass, glass vacuum tubes.

Shards of glass near the window too.

My dad gets to work.

I watch as he jerks the hand-plane back and forth,

I watch his whole body rock back and forth.

When I watch my Dad work I can’t help but think of

Muhammed Ali, not as he was near the end of his life,

Shuffling and stone-faced,

But rather in the ring in his prime,

Swaying back and forth against the ropes,

Like a dope on a rope, rope-a-dope.

My dad bumps into the circular saw

Resting on the edge of the workbench.

I watch it fall towards my feet and perhaps

For a split second marvel

At the simple physics of its fall,

The way it drops cold and precise

Surprises me—

For some reason I imagine the blade,

Perhaps even the entire saw,

Rotating in slow-mo, doing what it does,

What it’s meant to do.

Maybe cause it’s plugged in after all.

My dad—my dad doesn’t turn around,

Instead he seems to pick up steam,

Pick up the pace,

So many unfinished projects to complete.

The table for my sister Faith,

The altar for his best friend Ric,

The speaker cabinet he burnt with a blowtorch,

In the style of “shou sugi ban”

Which he says is an age-old Japanese weatherproofing technique.

The guitar amplifier he is making for me,

Which is on the table across the room

With its insides splayed open, a mess of

Wires and wood and beautiful little

Ceramic capacitors, little paper resistors

With brightly colored lines a meaningful code,

Like the wings of a butterfly,

Like the belly of a bee.

I walk over to the wall and tug on the cord,

Come back and pick up the saw off the ground,

Put it back where it was.

Sometimes I fear for his life too.