Running
barefoot across the scorching grass to my grandfather's shop. The July
sun beating down on me. Stopping just inside the shadowed doorway, my
eyes adjusting, the soles of my feet absorbing the blessed coolness of
the cement.
While
I wait for the whine of the saw to stop, I breathe in sawdust,
turpentine and varnish. As it slows I call, "Hey, Pop!" I run to hug
him. My ten year old head just the right height to smell the Red Man in
his shirt pocket. I hop on the counter, content to be in the presence
of my favorite person.
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