My Boy Builds Coffins

My son is a carpenter like his father before him. Every day he rises with the sun, a hammer clenched in his fist and nails stuck between his teeth. Woodcraft is his passion, the grime of dust another layer of skin. Splinters and nicks cover his fingers, but they don’t bother him. He’s used to the pain. His workshop is small but filled with the tools of his trade. Hand planes and chisels line the walls, vises and clamps are strewn about on his workbench. He knows each of them personally, an extension of his own body. Part of his very soul.

My son has the ability to create many things. He could build a table for our kitchen or a set of chairs to place around it. His hands could craft toys for the little ones in the village, rocking horses and nine pins filling them with glee. He could lathe bowls or vases, handles for axes or knives. He could use his tools to build a bed or chest of drawers that would rival the ones in king’s palaces. Almost anything he could make. Yet, he only makes one.

Coffins.

Day and night he labors over boxes for the dead. For each new client, he prepares his measurements and determines his cut list. From tree to board, he meticulously selects the best for his product. He planes each piece with care, sanding the wood until it’s as soft as silk. Dovetails and miters are all part of his job, fitting each piece together like a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes he stains the casket, other times he leaves the grain as is for a more natural feel. His final touches are the most intricate, carving tiny crosses and stars along the lid and sides. When he’s finished, it’s a work of art. A masterpiece crafted by calloused, rough hands.

My son is gifted as many others have realized. He has worked with the richest of rich to the poorest of poor, never turning away anyone. He is willing and able to help all. He measures them with care, his calculation precise. Thanks for his dedication come in many forms. From gold coins and jewels to chickens and hay, his clients pay what they have. He is not picky on how he is compensated. That is not why he builds coffins.

The priest is a family friend, visiting often with my son. They speak in hushed tones, but I know what they’re talking about. Memories of those who are gone. For the priest, it’s the memory of the person, the life they lived and how they died. For my son, however, it’s the casket he remembers. He can see each one clear as day, every carving and every flaw in his work. The tiny imperfections only a master would notice. He tosses and turns at night, mumbling how they could have been better. How he could have made them perfect for the grave.

But he will never see them again. No matter how much he would like to fix his mistakes, his work is buried six feet under. No one will ever see his craftsmanship but the worms and ghosts. All that beauty, hidden from the world in a pile of dirt. His coffins are sealed with the dead.

My son is a busy man, his efforts seemingly endless. From the time he could affix a nail to the present, he has built coffins. Most are for customers, people seeking out his services. His favorite works, though, were used closer to home. He made one for his father, birch and ash. One for his sister, redwood and pine. One for his brother, cedar and fir. All tucked safely away in the earth where they will suffer no more. His father will no longer cough and shake into the twilight hours of the night. His sister will no longer struggle to breathe, her chest heaving with effort. And his brother never had to suffer, his light being snuffed out before his first breath. Yes, he wrapped them safely into the dark and gave them peace. Put them to rest the only way he knew how.

Now he’s making one for me. Loving hands shape the edges of my future resting place, careful precision in the placement of the lid. He travelled far to find the wood that would hold my empty shell. A red mahogany lined with the finest wool, a warm place to rest my weary bones. It has been a long life, fraught with pain and sorrow. I’m ready to go to sleep for the last time.

My son comes to me, awaiting my final moments. Soon I will be placed in another one of his hidden creations. I don’t fear the end for my son is near. He will be with me always in the texture of the grain and the chiseled heart on the cover.

Death is just another journey for these old bones to voyage.