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"As I stood there in the garage, I remembered that piece of plywood through all its evolutions, from the moment Dad picked it out at the lumberyard until the moment I found myself holding the last slice of it thirty years later.
"As I felt its substance, it began to dawn on me: Dad really was gone, and with him his ability to see something new and useful inside something old and worn. To him, a piece of plywood wasn't just lumber: it was a travel box, a bunk bed, a train set platform, a dresser.
"I had shared most of my life with this piece of wood as shaped by my father's hands. It had joined me on an unforgettable family vacation. I had worn the paint off the ladder climbing up to sleep in a bed made from it. I had played trains on it. I had placed my clothing in its drawers. Now at last I held a remnant of it, the craftsman's hands finally still and the wood at rest, no longer to be cut and nailed, sanded and painted.
"My father was dead, but as I began to clean out his stuffed-to-the-gills garage, I was about to learn an astonishing secret about him . . . and about myself." |
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