The Sum of a Man

by Norah Pollard

In autumn,
facing the end of his life,
he moved in with me.
We piled his belongings—
his army-issue boots, knife magazines,
Steely Dan tapes, his grinder, drill press,
sanders, belts and hacksaws—
in a heap all over the living room floor.
For two weeks he walked around the mess.

One night he stood looking down at it all
and said: "The sum total of my existence."
Emptiness in his voice.

Soon after, as if the sum total
needed to be expanded, he began to place
things around in the closets and spaces I'd
cleared for him, and when he'd finished
setting up his workshop in the cellar, he said,
"I should make as many knives as I can,"
and he began to work.

The months plowed on through a cold winter.
In the evenings, we'd share supper, some tale
of family, some laughs, perhaps a walk in the snow.
Then he'd nip back down into the cellar's keep
To saw and grind and polish,
creating his beautiful knives
until he grew too weak to work.
But still he'd slip down to stand at his workbench
and touch his woods
and run his hand over his lathe.

One night he came up from the cellar
and stood in the kitchen's warmth
and, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, said,
"I love my workshop."
Then he went up to bed.

He's gone now.
It's spring. It's been raining for weeks.
I go down to his shop and stand in the dust
of ground steel and shavings of wood.
I think on how he'd speak of his dying, so
easily, offhandedly, as if it were
a coming anniversary or
an appointment with the moon.
I touch his leather apron, folded for all time,
and his glasses set upon his work gloves.
I take up an unfinished knife and test its heft,
and feel as well the heft of my grief for
this man, this brother I loved,
the whole of him so much greater
than the sum of his existence.

from Death & Rapture in the Animal Kingdom. © Antrim House, 2009.

Comment: This was the featured poem a couple of days ago on The Writer's Almanac. I was moved by its simplicity and accessibility. I actually really enjoyed it when the narrator simply says at the end how she feels, "this brother I loved." After talking about all the trivial material, banal things that make up our lives and how we see people, to sum up the essence of their relationship as one not made of objects, but love, really had an impact.

L is on my lap fascinated by the clicking noise I'm making with my fingertips!

I don't know if I've written about The Writer's Almanac before. A friend told me about it many years ago, but I only recently started listening online and reading the website. It's wonderful. It's hosted by Garrison Keillor and each episode is only five minutes long or so. Their archives are comprehensive and it's very easy to listen to a handful of shows.