What the Hands Made

The shelf is still standing.

I built it on a Saturday,

drilled the holes myself,

measured twice and still got it slightly wrong,

but wrong in a way that's barely noticeable

unless you're looking for it.

Which I'm always looking for it.

The wood has collected dust already.

Three weeks and it's already gathering

the small debris of living in a space,

settling into the grain,

making itself at home on something

I made from nothing.

I can see my handprints on it still—

the smudges where I held it level,

where I steadied it against the wall,

where I checked and rechecked

that it was right.

It's beautiful in the way

that things we build with our hands are beautiful:

temporary,

imperfect,

already becoming something else.

The wood will warp eventually.

The screws will loosen.

The dust will become grime.

Someone else might live here someday

and take it down without thinking,

or use it for something else,

or leave it to collapse.

But for now, it holds things.

For now, it's exactly what I intended.

I run my hand along the edge,

and I can feel where the sandpaper didn't quite reach,

where the wood is still rough,

where my hand-made imperfection

is permanent.