On Woodworking, One More Time

When he could no longer climb the stairs,my grandfather simply stopped woodworking.

In time, the house forgot this sound.

When he could no longer walk the beach,

            my father said quietly, as if to the ocean:

                Take a seat, Dad

    and they sat for hours        on end, unsure of how to get home; what direction

                was next.

This information,        like most, was communicated

                over long distances;

            how I can't figure out where                in the conversation to insert this sort                    of anecdote, that sort of laugh.

                        How much of our interactions                        were made up

of the meanwhile;

                its ever-so-slight needle.

From this curious singularity,        whole reels let out like overcrowded charter boats,

            or the 8mm my father transferred to digital                so he could remind himself                        just how small all of this once was.