“That’s the best reason.”
I quench the metal in water, steam hissing like a steam train at full speed, and attach the new piece to the wing. My hands shake a little from focusing. Every part matters as it only takes one wrong placement to fuck up the entire thing. After I have attached the wing, I stand back to assess the placement and my dad clears his throat.
“Leo?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
I don’t look at him right away as my throat tightens, the emotion bubbling inside of me too fast to gain control. I pretend to adjust the clamp so he can’t see my eyes fill with tears.
“For the bird?” I ask jokingly.
“For everything, son.”
I finally turn and he isn’t smiling this time. His eyes are serious, warm, full of something that feels too big to put into words.
“You work hard,” he says. “You care about what you make. You listen to it. Most people don’t listen to anything.”
“I learned from you,” I say, choking on my words but meaning every word.
“You learned because you wanted to.”
Silence settles between us that’s loving and comfortable.
“I’m just glad,” he continues, quieter now, “that you found something you love. That you wake up wanting to do it. Always remember that matters more than money or titles or other people’s opinions. You only get one life, make sure you live it doing what you love.”
“I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
He steps closer, resting a hand on the edge of the table, his knuckles are scarred, his skin thick and cracked from decades of work. They look tough as nails.
“You know what sculpture is?” he asks.
“Metal therapy?” I say, and he chuckles.
“It’s proof that broken things can become beautiful.”
I look at the bird, at all of the jagged seams and patchy bodywork.
“Guess that makes sense,” I say as he squeezes my shoulder before moving back to sorting through materials.
The afternoon drifts by in sparks, flames and sweat to the sound of quiet music from Dad’s old radio. He tells me stories while he works that I’ve heard before, about his first sculpture, a lopsided horse that collapsed in the rain, about the time he sold a piece for less than it cost to make because the buyer looked sad at the idea of not being able to afford it.
By the time the sun lowers, the sculpture is almost finished. The wings stretch wide now, balanced and strong. The head is finally shaped, the eye sockets filled with small pieces of polished steel that catch the light, making them sparkle.
I step back and Dad stands beside me.
“It’s beautiful,” he says simply.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“Think it’ll hold together?” I ask, and he grins.
“If it doesn’t, we’ll fix it.”
I nod. That’s always been the answer.
We clean up the workshop before night settles, so we can turn in for the night. I’m not sure about Dad, but I’m starving. Before we turn off the lights, I look back at the bird one last time. It stands there all majestic with thewings spread, chest lifted, frozen in the moment like it’s getting ready to take off into the sky.
