(For example, for the letter A it was the 26th word on the list, for Z it was the 1st word on the list)
He stood in the doorway, peering into the dark shed. The walls were lined with woodworking tools, the instruments of his grandfather’s craft. Flipping the light switch, he stepped inside. The wood shavings hadn’t lost their odor. The half-finished sign was still on the bench.
He thought back over his younger years, hours spent watching the gnarled hands carve minute details into a stubborn piece of wood. They were happy years, living next door to his grandparents. At age twelve, an acrimonious divorce took him far away from their home in Iowa to a life in the city of Boston. No further contact had been allowed by his mother, no matter how much he begged.
Now, here he was newly graduated from college with a degree that failed to impress prospective employers. The letter from a lawyer, forwarded by his college roommate, notified him he was the sole heir of their homestead.
As he slid his hand over the antique tools, a chill ran up his arms. He stopped and shivered, looking around. Seeing nothing, he picked up the chisel beside the unfinished sign. Rolling the wooden handle in his palm, he started chipping away on the wood.
Two hours later, he sat back and admired his work. Not bad after ten years. Of course all he had done was finish the detail work already laid out. Could he do something all on his own? He picked up another block of wood and started chipping away.
The more he worked, the closer he felt to his grandfather. At times it felt like he was working with those old gnarled hands rather than his own.
A passerby might have even seen the old man, bent over his grandson’s shoulder, merging their hands into one masterful instrument.
Thank you.