My brother and I walk out to grandma’s garage and pop open beers. I snoop around, looking at all of the old stuff scattered about.
Little and big things that belonged to grandpa, come into view. In the corner hangs an ancient rotting chair. I can remember sitting on it in the corner of grandpa’s little woodworking shed. My brother and I have our cars parked in the spot where the shed once stood.
The bottom of the chair feels cool against my fingers. It is stained a deep brown. The rotting wood is damp and cold and scratchy to the touch. It was one of the few chairs that I would willingly sit on and behave. I hated sitting. When I was told to sit anywhere else I would become fidgety and quickly find myself in trouble.
I can remember sitting in that chair and swinging my dangling legs side to side. I loved sitting in that chair and watching him work. Oftentimes, I would sit across from him at his woodworking bench and play with scraps of wood, painting them, sawing them into different shapes.
I see old pieces of his wood. I pick up one of them and it is the same thin yellow scrap piece he would let me use. I can still smell the saw dust and feel it collecting in my eyes, causing them to water. I can feel the safety of grandpa’s presence nestled among the relics of the past.