When it was time to sell the books, it wasn’t easy for me. I took boxes of them in, pared down the shelf to only those that really mattered to me, ones I would read again, ones I would give to friends to read. I could always buy more books. They took up so much space, and I needed the cash now. In time, they all went, each one a little pang, a little bit of anger at the world that wouldn’t let me keep the precious things I had acquired.
Anyway, they say getting rid of clutter is good for you psychologically.
I watched the metal lathe go with a sense of deep sadness. I hate to let go of a tool, hate the sense of lost potential, all the things I would have made, all the beauty and ingenuity that would never come to fruition. Well, the money was good, and it takes money to get into grad school, so I watched it drive away. I never really had the chance to learn to use it well, never really used it to it’s full potential. Besides, it was such a pain to move.
The wood, well, that was hard. So many nice pieces, figured cherry, exotic bubinga, chunks of blackwood and ebony. Each one chosen for its beauty, some of them so entrancing I simply hadn’t been able to cut into them. Off they went, to pay for tests, to pay the rent while I begged and pleaded for letters of recommendation.
The anvils, the hammers, the forge. Well, I wouldn’t have time to hammer steel in grad school. The tools were family heirlooms, but what use are heirlooms if the family dies with me and my unfinished dreams? Better that I go on to my degree and success in life, than be held down by the weight of history. I wouldn’t loose the skills I had learned, I would find new hammers when I was done with school, buy a fresh new anvil. Surely, letting them go was all for the best.
The things I had made, the things that had been made for me. The raw materials and the tools – all went off to the good cause of having a future, a future that mattered, a future in which I could be proud of myself, make my mark on the world.
My hands were the hardest to give up. You get so used to them, so dependent, but what are hands, really? It is the mind that matters, that’s what you go to grad school for. There was very good money in strong hands, enough to release me of all my debts. What had I ever really done with them anyway? I seem to have used them for everyone else, I was always lifting or carrying or typing away for someone. Just like all the other tools, why own them if you never get a chance to use them? These hooks, they would do for now. Later, later I could buy something better.
I heard recently that souls were going for top dollar these days, and I’m considering it. Not that it takes up much space, but all it seems to do is ache lately. I could buy a car, maybe even a house. After grad school I’ll start growing a new one.
Based on a True Story by Kenneth Lett is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
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