Woodwork

James Miller

Mitch makes each finger in the garage. He takes a block of cheap Home Depot pine and carves out the shape of pointing. I like to say they’re all index, homing for the Forms. Mostly life-size, a bit crude at the joints, unstained.

I address the boxes, sitting at our dining table. Slow work, hard on the back. My black marker’s squeaking makes me think of kids in Shakespeare revues, wiry mice playing at witches, murderous kings.

I can hear Mitch out there, listening to 70s King Crimson on mix cassettes. Obviously we’re doing this shit on the weekends. We’re both plenty busy at Buckingham Retirement—hanging birdfeeders for the residents, chopping celery for chicken salad and crackers. On our time, it’s piles of wood shavings, white or pale-blue tissue paper folded wisely to protect the darlings in transit.

About fifteen fingers a Saturday, now that we have our system down. We’ll never finish, there are too many in need. I used to tell Mitch how much I love them. His half-assed woodworks and the folks who will most likely not grant them a spot on their mantels. I get it—so many grandkid graduations there’s no room for us. Sometimes I slide a finger in my mouth, let the wet grow till I can’t hold it in. Then drop the thing in its coffin to swallow, hard and gulping.

Last week Mitch caught me doing it. I gotta pee, he said. When he came back, I was busy labeling the last batch for the day. He kissed me on the back of my neck. Folded a tag on my shirt back into place. I lifted another finger to my lips.