It was a Saturday in October — the kind that smells like sawdust and cold air and nothing else needs doing. My dad cleared the workbench while I dragged the lumber inside, still carrying the sharp clean scent of the yard. I was nine, maybe ten. He'd found a plan for a wooden armchair — something solid, something that would last. We were going to build it together.
We laid the pieces out on the garage floor. He talked me through each part — the seat rails, the back slats, the curved armrests. I ran my hand along the grain of the oak. It was already beautiful, even rough. We started with the frame, working slowly, laughing when things didn't line up right the first time. The hand saw made a sound like a heartbeat. The wood shavings curled onto the concrete.
Then we hit Step 7.
The diagram showed a mortise-and-tenon joint connecting the back leg to the seat rail. The measurement given was 1¾ inches. But when we cut and tried to fit it, there was a gap — maybe an eighth of an inch, maybe less. Enough to wobble. Dad stared at it for a while. He tried shimming it with wood glue and a sliver of scrap. Still not right. He said he'd figure it out next weekend.
Next weekend was a work trip. Then Thanksgiving. Then the chair frame, half-assembled, got pushed into the corner under a tarp so we'd have room for the car. I went back to school. He went back to work. Years folded over each other the way they do.
I found it again at 32, home for a visit. The tarp had yellowed. The wood had darkened and shifted slightly — not warped, exactly, just tired. I pulled back the tarp and ran my hand along one of the armrests. The oak still had that faint honey smell underneath the dust. Dad walked in from the house. We both stood there looking at it without saying much. There wasn't much to say.
The chair hadn't moved in twenty-two years. Still half-built. Still waiting on Step 7.