image from Phoebe Flanigan
There was a toolmaker obsessed with making tools.
Day in and day out, he would focus on mastering his craft. Making specialized tools of every material he could get his hands on.
Useful for every purpose imaginable. Amassing a library made of wood, copper, alloy, stones.
Small, specific instruments. Large, enormous trestles.
It overtook everything and he was prepared for whatever could come his way.
Yet, he revelled more in the mass he had created. Rarely desiring to put his tools to use except to create more. Afraid that the wear and tear of function would lead to a loss of his library.
But at times, he would build.
A chair. A house for a neighbor. A custom catapult lent to his country for war.
All possessing what was always lingering in his generosity: a fear of loss. of reducing his toolshed.
On a day as any other, the man died.
His tools, a tidy pile of beauty en masse, were dispersed among family and friends.
The wooden spoons he toiled over and hung untouched over his workbench, burned for warmth by a niece in want of a home.
Sets of silver medical instruments, melted and sold for food in the midst of famine.
Some though, survived. for time, in tact. Others put to use.
But all degraded, regardless of utility.
The toolmaker is still remembered for his handiwork. The tools he created. The craftsmanship he displayed. The legacy he left in his wake and in his field of expertise.
By individuals who were impacted and grateful for his genius and sporadic charity. For both the artistry and longevity of what little he used his tools to create.
But I mourn for the city he could have built.