—
All the positions are filled, the pastor said,
but you could be a floater. Meaning
I woke each morning not knowing
and at breakfast a man named Archer
told me what to get busy with. On Monday
I hunched in the kitchen scrubbing beets.
On Tuesday I helped the carpenters
dismantle a barn’s gable. The shifts blurred
like faces seen from a carousel pony.
In the laundry I folded linens, in the pottery
I cleaned the kiln, my hands getting nicks
from pulling shingles, stains from applying
glazes, flaky skin from scrubbing
at the scullery’s foot-pedal sink.
But none of the wear showed deeply.
Archer called them wishy-washy hands.
Make up your mind, he teased, flooding
flapjacks with his homemade syrup.
Hey, Pastor, he said, get a load of these.
He laid his hands on my hands and turned them
as a father might turn turtles to show his son
the belly patterns. The pastor squinted.
What am I looking for? By the time
Archer sent me back to the carpenters
they had the second story down. In the kitchen
the lunch menu changed. The laundry granted
one towel per camper instead of two.
It was easier to adapt than you’d think.
If I had a hammer in my hand, I pulled nails.
If I had a sheet, I found the corners.
Previously published on Ploughshares
—
Get the best stories from The Good Men Project delivered straight to your inbox, here.
—
Photo Credit: Getty Images