The Note That Stayed

Cold dust on the drafting table

Sawdust settled like winter frost

Two half-inch chisels in the rack Counting up what the ticket cost

And under the latch of the cedar box A yellowed scrap of

graph paper falls

Six feet by three feet,

written in pencil

Sitting on the concrete floor

I never asked what he was building

Just ran my fingers along the grain (hmmm)

Now the red cedar smells like cedar

And the pine looks just like rain

He had a thumb calloused from the cedar And a habit of

checking the square

Measure it twice, write down the numbers Even when the lines weren't

there

I found the pocket book

in his drawer

Three faded words in his hand

'For my boy' (ahhhh)

I finally know what he was building

(yeah) Every joint is tight and true

I picked up his heavy iron plane And finished

what he started to

I closed the lid on the empty box

It made a sound like a heavy door swinging shut

In the quiet of the evening light

I finally see what he was building

It was a place for me to rest my head

(ooh) And now the room is warm and clear Where he measured

out my bed

Just a plane and some cedar shavings

And a name on a piece of page