The Way The Grain Goes

It was a simple place,
unembarrassed with pretension,
as if invented just for him.
Salt, dust, formica over hardwood.

Thousands had sat here,
face to face,
fork to knife,
questions to answers.

The perfect setting for what it's all about.
"Time will not save you when the time comes,"
he half whispered to an empty glass,
dregslimed and cold.

Its small tears puddled beneath,
Grand plans, big places,
games and drives and worries and doubts…
all long lost, but leaving still
that tree strength, a plumb certainty
and an unbowed optimism.

He hard won it in the hardest places.
Before sunrise, aching, cold, alone.
Wood, nails, hammering on.
Measure, cut, builder man.

"And then the whole world falls on you",
said still with a smile.
Rough truths he sanded over
so I wouldn't splinter.
I'm ten again, sharing a table with my dad.