Sawdust
by Paulette Demers Turco

The scent of sawdust on a basement floor
draws me back to hours our dad would spend
away from us, beyond one varnished door.

For hours on end, Dad, deaf since his World War,
ran his screeching saw while we’d contend
the smell of sawdust on our basement floor,

the spiraled shavings–maple, pine–were more
intriguing than our games. Once he’d descend
away from us, beyond one varnished door,

our brother soon began to venture more
and more, while we girls learned to mop, knit, mend.
The scent of sawdust on our basement floor

meant Dad would not have time to play before
he’d fix a bureau–time he could defend
away from us, beyond that varnished door.

One day, I’d risk the stairs. I’d dare ignore
the rule. I’d grasp one tool, draw blood–pretend
the scent of sawdust on our basement floor
remained, for me, beyond that varnished door.



This poem first appeared in Ibbetson Street # 56, Winter, 2024: “Sawdust”



 

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