Sandpaper

The carpenter sat at his little workbench, in his little shop, hunched over a block of wood. Sawdust and wood chips clutter the desk he’s working at, even more piled on the floor. In his callused hands, he grips a chisel, chipped and worn, and small hammer adorned with more than a few nicks. He holds the chisel to the wood, pauses, and strikes it with the hammer. Slowly, rhythmically. The wood thumps at his strikes, as if it were a beating heart. More chips scatter, they land on the desk and on his arms and in his lap and on his face. He keeps chipping away at the block, faster now.

After a while, he stops and brushes away the detritus from the table onto the floor. Gently places the chisel and hammer down in the cleared spot, patting each as he does so. He scoops up the block in one hand and holds it up before his milky eyes. Close, like a jeweler grading a diamond. Or a surgeon, probing a wound.

The wood now resembles a hand, the shape yet crude. He smiles.

As he places the hand back on the workbench, he produces a piece of sandpaper from a small drawer. His finger brushes a well-worn golden ring, nestled among the bric-a-brac: a faded picture; an opened envelope, letter still inside; a tiny vial of sand.

He runs the sandpaper along the hand in long strokes, smoothing out the wood. He runs his finger along the sides, pausing to smooth out any rough patch he comes across with quick, deliberate precision. This continues for a long while, until he’s run his fingers across every inch of the now-smooth hand.

Satisfied, he places the sandpaper next to the chisel and retrieves a small carving knife. Its handle is smooth and discolored, but its blade still as sharp as when it was first forged. He hunches over the hand now, carving fine details into it. Subtle veins and arteries. Fingernails and bones. The heart and fate lines on the palm. He saves the lifeline for last, cutting it long with three forks, like a trident.

When he has finished, he gently sets the knife down with the rest of the tools and gives the hand one final sanding. He admires his work, holding it in front of him, and then gently brings it to his lips softly kissing the palm and then pressing it against his cheek.

He rises, pushing backwards, bones creaking and popping, and grabs a cane that had been sitting nearby. Slowly walking across the room, he uses the cane for balance until he steps in front of a mannequin, carved in the likeness of a young woman, just as detailed as the hand. It’s nearly complete, only a hand and a foot missing.

He grabs the unfinished arm and presses the now-finished hand into place. It locks in with a click. He smiles once more and cups her face in his hand. Rubs her cheek with his thumb. He lingers for a while, staring at his handiwork, until finally he grabs the final block of wood from beside her and limps slowly back to his bench.