Yesterday I built shelves with my dad.
We did not bicker or stew in bitter silences.

Upon his second suggestion of different trim 
to finish the sides, I said it sounded great. 

I held flush the edges. He sighted the nail gun. 

There was a day I would have fought over
that half inch, but not yesterday and not tomorrow. 

We admired our work at the end of the day.
The kitchen smelled like sweat and sun and wood. 

We built the shelves to outlast us both. 

Perhaps when the next owner remodels
this kitchen, they’ll pause for a moment
before ripping the shelves off the wall
and notice a thing made with care.

Maybe they’ll feel a tinge of loss when they
toss them into a rented dumpster and replace
them with something they love. Maybe
they’ll keep them like they kept their
grandmother’s cardigan after realizing
such a sweater, while slightly out
of fashion, can’t be bought again.