Papa paused in the lumber yard
and sniffed the air. His rheumy eyes
lit like twin stars on a darkening sky.

"Pine's down there, son."

Years back, Papa and I would sit
on the porch and sip lemonade
while he spoke of pine in the woods.

"When rain pounds the ground,
you can smell those roots deep
in the earth, boy. That wood has a way
with the air and the rich, black soil."

Papa had begun to look like that soil; as if
he was getting ready for it. Weathered
earth skin, wrapped in a faded plaid shirt.

"I need eleven planks, son.
Six for sides and bottom. Two for the cover.
Two for ends. One for bracing."

The buzz-saw pass of years had left sawdust
memories of when Papa stood like a cedar.
His hands, dark against the white wood, caressed
the grain with a practiced plane of wisdom.

"Can't spend eternity smelling like a lunch box.
Pine smells better, son. Got finer grain, too."

I knew I'd come home for the last time.



**Inspired by a story of William Henry Lewis

 

 

Shirley is a native California Pisces who enjoys writing a diverse array of short stories, poems, and devouring banana pudding. Her work has been published in ZuZu's Petals, A Writer's Choice, All Mixed Up, Papyrus, and several  other online literary journals. She's an avid lover of animals, however. Two cats currently own her and won't allow her any other pets. Participating at The Amazing Instant Novelist site for over five years has greatly inspired Shirley. She stated, "My busy inner child keeps me young, and my creative juice drips on occasion."

Have comments you'd like to send the author? Please e-mail Shirley at: SWalker712@aol.com or fill out the form below:

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