There’s something about a man
who knows his way around a house.
He stands in the middle of the room
and talks to me about my load-bearing walls.
He admires my vaulted ceilings,
my transoms.
He says the view is particularly nice
from where he’s standing.
He’s got a massive tool belt
that hangs on his denim-wrapped hips.
The line of him is straight and tall,
like this house.
He quickly measures floors, doors.
“You probably want wood floors, I guess…”
Oh yes.
My options are laminate, engineered or solid,
acrylic-impregnated, hand-scraped.
My mind races at the possibilities.
Distressed cherry.
Oh yes.
That would be the one I want.
There’s something about a man
who knows what to do and when to do it.
How to handle the problem of your wiggling balustrade,
your squeaky doorknob,
your slipping foundation and damp crawl space.
I express concern about my weathered fascia.
He reassures me and I’m relieved.
He says it’s perfect the way it is, but adds,
“Your backsplash really needs to be regrouted.”
And I’m fine with that,
because what empty nest doesn’t need something?
Just a little something that can be fixed
by a man with a loaded tool belt
who knows his way around a house.
© Wendy Russ
Wendy Russ lives in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Her work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Boston Literary Magazine, The Good Men Project and elsewhere, and has been performed live with Liars’ League (NY & Hong Kong) and on the internationally-syndicated radio show Tales from the South.
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