The Unasked Questions Are the Ones That Get You Every Time

There’s a split in
the oak table that he
made in his basement;
every board run through
the planer until each
was level according to
his eye.  

An actual level,
at that point in his life,
was a useless appendage.
Each board, once leveled, was
hand-glued to the next and
held together until dry by
parallel clamps that normally
hung from the floor joists
above his head.

The table was then sanded
and finished and given
to his daughter, which she
used to finalize
the papers of his meager estate
when his mind failed him
before his body did.

 
There’s a split in
her oak table that’s
grown wider in the years
since his death and
even though she still
receives mail
addressed to him,
that doesn’t wound her
nearly as much as
the split in her oak table does.