The Old Hand Saw

A reminder of my father; more antique than useful it was tucked inside my tool box ever ready to be used. Soaped and sharpened many times the blade was keen and hungry. I took it with me everywhere 'til pure gave way to power, and through the years it waited, I could never give it up. The skilsaw superseded; a cold, efficient implement that did as it was told, never a slip. As my effectiveness fell short, my eyes became unsure, my hands bore witness to the times I slipped and sliced until I bled when choosing my old friend. Museum pieces, he and I, both worn and put away; I still recall the touch, the feel, the smell of yesterday.