It is the rhythmic rasp of the sandpaper she likes best. A counterpoint, and companion, voice to her grandfather’s asthmatic wheeze as he makes furniture and occasionally toys. Punctuated by the cough of the match head on the striking paper to light his hand rolled cigarettes.
She can discern by ear the coarseness of the grit against the grain. Jarrah, pine, mahogany. He gives her the cork block and a sheet of sandpaper. Converses with her through each stroke.
She knows, one day, this conversation will cease.
Enjoyed reading this…
Thank you very kindly.
nice rhythms and alliteration & assonance convey the sound of sandpaper & wheezing
I was going for soundscape in this piece. Seems like I nailed it 🙂
Lovely prose poetry, and so sweetly sad.