It's Still Life

19.09.23

08:10
The rain is a tantrum. It’s dashing itself against the window as if it were a ship on the rocks. He’s staring at it. It will pass, he says. You sound like Nostradamus, I tell him. Or Moses parting water.

08:15
He’s still standing at the window. Looking. Rain and sea. Wind in syllables. This weather is self-righteous. That sailboat will lose its mast, he says. No, not Moses, I’m thinking … definitely Nostradamus. Or Odin.

08:30
There are other sounds. Besides rain and breaking waves. The people upstairs walking around. Car tyres crunching on the gravel drive. I can hear my watch tick. And it’s not even close to my ear. How is that possible, I say.

09:06
He’s crunching his granola. I think noises are going to make me nuts today, I say.

09:08
There was a rock polishing machine in an Agate Beach shop that made noise that would silence saints. I bought an agate necklace there when I was 12. They had grey seals in an aquarium. They barked.

09:15
What time should we leave, I ask. We’re going on a tour of a Danish furniture factory that once produced a very famous handmade wooden chair – years ago. Ten o’clock, he says. He knows that I hate being late; I need to know stuff like that. He’s less troubled by time. He always arrives exactly on time. Maybe he’s Chronos.

09:29
The rain’s cleared the air. Look, I can see the bridge. How far away is that, I ask. He guesses at 25 kilometres. He’s totally metric. I’m half and half. I’m British. We still do miles. And recipes use teacups.

09:30
That’s 15 miles, I tell him. He’s standing at the window again. Looking at the bridge. How it stays up, I’ll never know, he says.

10:49
I thought you said the weather would improve, he says. No, you said that, I replied. The car just went into Wet Road mode.

11:00
Sunshine! Told you so, he says. I laugh because this is serious. He’s Nostradamus.

13:00
I love that smell, I tell him, wood dust, sawdust. Oak, cut, chiseled, following the grain like a crease across ones palm. The wood speaks to the carpenter. This wood will never know an ordinary life. It shall be artistry. It will carry a veil forever.

16:20
Rain still falls, the wind blowing leaves severed from its forest. Chaotic confetti. And I still smell wood dust.

19:00
And I still smell wood dust.

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©Misky 2023.