The Foundation We Build
Beneath new beams and fresh-cut pine,
In the hush of evening’s slowing time,
We shape a space with care-worn hands—
A daughter’s dream, a life’s new plan.
My son-in-law, with steady grace,
Beside me in that shadowed place.
We lift and frame, we brace and bend,
Not just a room—but means to end.
My father’s voice, still calm, still wise,
Echoes through sawdust-scented skies.
Three generations, hearts as one,
Driving nails until it’s done.
There’s laughter echoing off the studs,
And plans sketched out in drywall dust.
Each hammer’s swing, each nail we drive,
Another way we keep love alive.
And yet, amid the joy and sweat,
There lies a quiet, soft regret.
A space beside me not yet filled,
A longing that won’t quite be stilled.
I wish my son could see this too,
And feel the pride in what we do.
To pass this torch, to share this bond,
To build a life he’s proud beyond.
And someone else—I feel the lack,
A presence missed, a voice held back.
To share the dusk, the ride, the road,
To lighten up this blessed load.
For family’s more than blood or name,
It’s showing up through joy and strain.
It’s knowing love in tired hands,
And finding peace in shared demands.
And when the stars begin to show,
And quiet calls me home to go,
The country roads stretch soft and wide,
With sunset bleeding on each side.
My body aches, my spirit soars—
For in these nights and through these chores,
I’ve come to see what matters most:
Not walls, not tools, but who we host.
A future built with sweat and care,
With love poured out in each repair.
And in that basement, warm and bright,
Lives not just shelter—but their light.
To give, to build, to stand beside,
To share the load, to swell with pride—
I know now what family means:
It’s not the house, but all the scenes
Of working late and driving slow,
Of quiet peace when day lets go.
Of building futures, hand in hand—
On sacred, sawdust-covered land.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
