I never met my husband’s father or grandfather. But I have held the tools that they touched. That my husband has held. And I know their hands. And I know the strength. I know the character. I know the lives. As the smell of vinegar dissipates, the tools come to life. Ready. Willing. Knowing. Soon the smell of cut wood will take over. The garage’s equivalent of spring. And the imprint of my husband’s hands will gather in the memories. (And one day visit Charles).
We are all building. Hoping that someday, someone will stand in front of that painting. Dance in that melody. Grab hold that hammer and know that you held it, built something, before and for, if for nothing else than to hold the hand of the future. To hold that smooth hand of youth and say, “I’m here, with you. It’s OK. Go on…”