Behemoth of his power tools,
the table saw did indeed see
years of action. Many cuts made;
many piece trimmed.
It belonged to him, my Dad.
Skilled carpenter; an artist with lumber.
When the saw ran, the screech and hum
was unmistakable. The sawdust hung,
suspended in air; a slightly burnt smell
of wood and electrical ozone filled
each breath. The sound of the table saw
meant Dad was home, hard at work.
When he passed away, the saw fell silent.
The whole house did really. It was apparent
there was no longer life here at “home”.
There was no saw dust; there was no hum.
Walking through the empty house, it no longer
felt like home. Nothing would changes that.
Or so I thought, anyway. Cleaning out his
workshop offered many unfinished projects he had
left so, due to his illness. The entire shop
was as he had left it the last time he worked in it.
A pile of wood sat in the rack, a canvas without
its Picasso. Mantle shelves, I thought.
I brought down the boards to the table top,
measuring lengths and marking cut lines.
Goggles covered my eyes, and the guard was in place
over the spinning blade. I flipped the switch.
The motor moaned to a start. When the saw ran,
the screech and hum was unmistakable.
The sawdust hung, suspended in air;
a slightly burnt smell of wood and electrical ozone
returned. The sound of the table saw
meant I was back home, at least once more.
The shelves now hang in my living room, reminders
of my Father and the hum of this table saw which I inherited.