The Wood Shop

I went inside my dad's dusty wood shop where he worked. I saw crystal silk strands with dried up insects hanging upside down adorning every corner. Warp pine boards were leaning against a work bench waited patiently. A rusty table-saw seem to look at me admonishingly. Cockroaches scurry around like dry leaves, while a field mouse with black glass-like eyes dashed away disappearing under a cabinet. On a dusty wooden table with rusty nails and screws, I see an unfinished pine step stool. A crude drawing on yellow parched paper laid next to a half finished project titled, 'For my granson'. Reading the misspelled word though watering stinging eyes, I remembered the many times I failed to heed his requests to join him in his shop. I found a broom and began to sweep my guilt away. I called my son to help, "I'm busy" Was his reply.