My Father’s Best-Friend

Taking a deep breath, I knew it was now or never. I had been putting it off too long. It was time to clear the shed. So, armed with five black bags and one box for stuff to keep, I made my way down the garden. The smell of grass was strong and brought back memories of a better time.

The shed stood at the bottom of the garden, leaning against the fence. Although, I was pretty sure it was the shed keeping the fence up. This place held so many unforgettable memories for me.

Opening the door, a wave of nostalgia engulfed me, almost taking my feet from under me. “No, not now,” I said, but no one heard.

It was time to face my memories.

After two hours, things were going better than expected. Four full black bags lay around me. I sat on the floor, dust covering my hands.

One more drawer to go. I pulled it; the oak drawer seemed hesitant before giving up its treasures.

The carpentry tools, well, compared to some of the other stuff, this would be easy.

I was proud I had managed a full two hours without crying. His gardening gloves had undone me first, but I stuffed the sob back down and carried on filling my black bags.

I had thrown most of the stuff away when I reached down and my hand grasped the hammer. Pulling it slowly, I turn it over in my hands, looking at it. It was built from an age where everything lasted.

If this hammer could talk, what a tale it would tell. I hear his voice as I look down at its solid wooden handle and metal head. I catch my reflection in the shiny metal and see the woman I have become.

The handle is smooth. Rubbed down with the hand that has gripped it firm. Dirt shows around the edge. The part of the handle held, still shiny and sleek. The dirt rubbed away with the heavy work carried out with its help.

My father used this hammer to pass his apprenticeship. It remained by his side through the decade of struggling to become a carpenter.

When he renovated the new house he moved into with my mum, it worked harder than him. He put up shelves, built new kitchens and repaired furniture.

The same hammer put our toys together when we were young. Then, in later life, he used it to build furniture for us as we grew. Later he could be found, hammer in hand, knocking the dents out of our first cars.

Years went by and this loyal servant stayed by his side. Through new businesses and houses, it was my father’s constant companion.

Then it started to accompany him on his weekly trips to my new house. Again it supported him through renovating a home, this time mine.

My father, me and his trusted companion built kitchens, knocked walls down and built furniture. It supported us both in turning a shack into a home.

“Why, why did you take this amazing strong man from me?” I yell at no one in particular.

Why, why had he been the statistic that didn’t survive? All those things I thought I had time to say but hadn’t. I should have told him how much I loved him. How much I measured my life by making him happy.

The pain was too much, radiating from my heart like a burning hole. Tears streaming down my face, I left the shed with my friend in hand. Feeling safe, knowing my father is beside me. It is now my turn to build furniture with it for a little one growing bigger. It is my turn to make toys from Santa with it. In time to come, it will be mine to hand to the next generation.

Taking one last look back at the shed, I mutter the words I have wanted to say all day as tears spill down my cheeks.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad