Dying Trades

Dying Trades The stone mason he was old now his hands unsteady. The eyesight fading. in winter he worked inside his barn. it could let the rheumatic cool down to let him work for an hour or more. His grandfather had apprenticed his father. and he had apprenticed him. and now his son was apprenticed. The tools were the same. no room for technology Here only artisan skill. The polished marble slab was taking shape. a headstone that would stand proudly in the cemetery. like many of his others that he had made in over fifty years of his life. it was almost finished possibly the best work he had ever done. the N was the final letter he tapped it with the iron rounded chisel. just hard enough to create a perfect slant in the marble. her name a thing of beauty EMMA BROWN His wife he was careful to leave space for his own name below hers his son would chisel that when his time was called. rubbing the marble to a high gloss he whispered see you soon my love