Rich Youmans
Something the Size of a Heart
This basement has my father’s smell, Old Spice and motor oil and the damp of rainy days. Above his bench, a caged bulb hangs from a copper pipe. I step out of its glare, watch as he puts together small parts: slotted discs, valves and hoses, a palm-sized bowl holding a coiled strip of metal. “A gizmo,” he tells me when I ask what he’s building. Just another job from the shop, brought home along with a few curses for his foreman that he thinks I can’t hear. My eyes barely level with his benchtop, I watch him align holes, fit pins and clips, fasten each with a few twists of a screw. His fingers, flecked with pale scars, move quickly, precisely; there’s nothing he can’t fix. When I pick up a wrench, just to feel its heft, he gently lifts it away. “You don’t want this,” he says. “You want a real job. Something clean. Something with ease.” He stretches the last word as if to savor its taste. Upstairs, mom’s onions begin to chatter in their pan; supper will be soon. He attaches a kidney-shaped cap, building up his gizmo piece by piece. I wonder how big it will grow.
full throttle the dreams coursing through our blood
About the Author
Rich Youmans lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Alice. His latest chapbook, Head-On: Haibun Stories, was published by Red Bird Chapbooks in 2018.
I wonder how big it will grow; at least, it should take the size of a literally (big) heart. I enjoy this.
You brought me in right away with those familiar smells. My grandfather worked for an oil company and wore Old Spice. My father was a pipe fitter. All of my uncles worked the line at GM. I’m familiar with those “manly smells.” I love all of the imagery. And again, at the end, you leave me with the scent of onions cooking in the pan. Yes, I totally relate to your story!