The Tool Shed

It was a dark hole into an Aladdin's cave of old tools. A small window gave the only light and fell on a rough sawn bench wearing scars inflicted by years of use. Saw cuts, drill holes and the miscued gouges of chisels had crusted to dark scabs. Oil stains blotched the surface like age spots. Reclaimed tin beaten flat on an anvil length of railway line covered the walls in a mosaic of odd shapes glazed in powdery rust. The floor was hardened clay compacted over decades by a pair of shuffling boots. It seemed almost a holy place, a grotto cut into a life to house precious things a man valued back then. Tools bore a sanctity, a purity of purpose, the blessed instruments of a craftsman kept and looked after for life. Some were venerated relics passed down by generations. I closed the door, leaving the cobweb draped silence intact. Soon to be demolished, its contents will be thrown into bargain boxes at the local trash and treasure. Sad how the age bundles up and dumps the holy to feed an empty core.