This old wooden chair,
the only wooden chair
to have accompanied
this even older,
make-shift
wooden desk,
has always
creaked
with any sudden movement.

The flame
of the gas lantern illuminates,
the green glass shade
encasing it,
The walls of this small
space have always
known a shade
of muted green but lately,
these walls seem to
glow as bright
as the first time my father
let me light the lantern.

Though that green gas lantern
has always
been used to light
up the room
it allows the eye
only a vague, green-hued silhouette  
of what is before it.

I flick my head lamp
on and adjust my eyeglasses.
My shoulders are hunched
over my drill press
and the attention
demanded by the plate
puts me in a hypnosis.
The watch
is the one
telling me what to do
and I
just happen to listen
very well.

In fact,
every time
the power surges
through the drill press
I can hear my fathers’ voice,
trying to drown out the machine,
Explaining to my younger self
what he was doing and why.

I will cherish the knowledge
and art of this craft,
that my father passed down to me,
as his father passed down to him,
and as I
will pass down to my son,
for it has taught me
an important lesson in life—
What we call “time”
Is something much different.
Real time cannot be measured in the way we try to,
It is not restricted to any certain direction or speed.
Our time is but an illusion.

While I am focused,
In the present moment,
crafting an object to measure time
in a singular-directional,
linear fashion,
I am reliving my past
every time
I step into my congested, tiny workshop
I am foreseeing my future
as I watch my son grow older,
I can envision with clarity,
what a talented craftsman he will become.

As I am creating something in my present moment.
Small, it may be,
It won’t accurately represent time
for all that it is,
but
this piece of metal is the result
of generations worth of love and passion,
it has given me the ability to see
the past,
the present,
and the future,
existing equally.