Reflections of a Stonemason
My breath steels in the heavy air, yet my heart swells as I hear
that familiar tune, one that has been to me a lifelong song.
The chisel rings as the blow from a three-pound hammer sends bits of stone reeling through the air.
The crayon has made its mark and the saw has made its cut.
Now the chisel sets the line and fashions the hard granite surface.
Two three-quartered holes are cut with the hammer drill, and the pin Lewis is set to them.
Not a word do I hear, only the squeaky tire of the wheelbarrow and the laborious breath of the tender as mud is prepared for the resting bed.
A nod and a hand signal and the sound of a diesel motor fires with strength of a hundred men of years past.
Pins in stone lift high in the air; energy of thought passes between men's minds as signals are read in silence.
And then she finds her final resting place.
Waiting in the ground for thousands of years for this moment. Perfect.
A fist is clenched. Cables are slacked and pins are pulled.
The tender saunters forward with a smile seeing the gleam in the eye of the old master.
The rhythm is perfect. The song goes on for hours and then days and weeks.
Youths strength has long past.
Strength of heart is all that remains, yet please God, one more day to hear the tune.