Sometimes, it just feels right.
The choice or the man or the word. It fits, lives where it should.
It’s what I felt, dropping him off. The crazy old house, the organized clutter of the workshop, the tomatoes ripening heavy in the back.
He humoured me, all the pictures and the poking around the shop when no one was looking. The jokes about the first day of school, and the mother-caution to tie back his hair so it wouldn’t get caught up in the sawing and the sanding, and the laughing about how the other students looked just like him with their worn jeans and old t-shirts and fuzzy faces, and the long hug.
But it was a sweet goodbye.
Because sometimes, it just feels right.
We unload the boxes of Kraft dinner and ichiban noodles into the cupboard, and pack the banana bread into the freezer and I know that, tucked into his duffel bag is a bible, and I think this is the church for him right now. The small prairie town, the workshop, the quiet, the work. The art.
He stands under the horseshoe, bowl-shaped for good luck, but I know he doesn’t need it. He’s in the carpenter’s shop, with the carpenter’s blessing, and he’s got everything he needs.
Bless your heart, Son. Enjoy and learn and be nourished.