With red eyes she watched over him
as he'd drift in and out of sleep or waking
dream from the pain medication. His arms
would lightly raise from the bed and float
in mid-air before he'd begin his work.
Hammering, usually. His thin white hands gripping
a handle we couldn't see and silently tapping
a nail into some invisible construction of his past.
My grandmother laughing, despite herself.
I've done it wrong, he'd say a minute later, his teeth
missing. I want to start over,
and he'd reach up with those thin arms to guide a plane
across the wood
he and only he could see.
We'd take turns at the bedside holding his hands,
when they weren't at work, and say our names.
He'd turn his eyes to us and know we were there,
The medications switched to something stronger
and we'd lose him even more
to his work, to whatever piece of furniture
he was crafting, destroying, rebuilding
until that perfect,
terrible moment of lucidity struck
and he turned to my grandmother
and begged
Put a nail through my head.
This is taking too long.
