Hands

The wood I hold in my hands is rough. Edges jagged and skin torn, a fragment of what it used to be. A grand willow, simultaneously reaching for the sky and bowing to touch the earth. It was beautiful, sitting with you under that tree, watching as the branches swayed in the breeze, scattering the sunlight trickling through.

My knife slices into its flesh, scraping away the bark. Little slivers curl into small spirals. They used to fall into the prickly grass beneath us as you worked, crease forming between your bushy brows as you searched to find the form within the wood. You would nudge my arm and tell me to shush, it was whispering, and if you didn’t listen closely you might make it into something it’s not. Then you would hold the piece of wood to your ear and shut your brown eyes, squeezing them tight to make me giggle.

My fingers shake as I push against the grain. They are slender and soft. Your thick, calloused hands used to cover them completely as you showed me how to dig scallops with the knife. You always tucked the cigarette between your lips so it wouldn’t ash on my skin as you taught.

The knife slips and draws a red line across my palm. A gasp. Then I grab the chunk of wood and hurl it. It clatters against the concrete floor of the shed, sliding to a stop in the corner. You warned me to be careful. To keep my hands clear of the knife so I wouldn’t cut myself.

I forgot.

It’s funny how fast the mind forgets. It’s a soft thing, not like the hard wood that remembers every year as a ring, every obstacle as a knot. I have to close my eyes to see the way your mouth quirked when you smiled. I saved an old voicemail so I can hear the rhythm in which you spoke.

I pick up the wood. A splinter slices into my finger.

It was windy the day the willow had finally fallen. For thirty-two years, it stood in our backyard, tranquil. None of us knew the battle that raged inside until it cracked open during that storm, rotten at the core.

I stare down at the salvaged piece in my hands.

You would have known how to make it beautiful again.

I set my knife down on the bench.

I’m not ready to listen yet.