Two Micros

by Mark Hall

The Splinter

Whenever I ask my grandfather if he has his pocket knife handy, his reply is always the same: “Have I got my britches on?” Long after his death, I find Granddaddy’s knife, tucked inside a cigar box. Its mother-of-pearl handle, the color of butter, still shines iridescent. But the blade sticks. I oil the bed where it nestles, then scrub the knife clean with a tiny brush. Next, I slide the blade against a whetstone, just as my grandfather taught me. As the edge brightens, coruscating black and blue whorls, heat marks, become visible.

When a splinter bites deeply, beyond the reach of tweezers, Granddaddy heats the blade with a Zippo lighter. Under anyone else’s hand, I would wail in fear of anticipated pain. But in Granddaddy’s wide palm, which braces my foot gently, I clench my teeth in silence.

As his blade slips beneath the splinter, I squinch my eyes shut and think of the fresh peach I watched Granddaddy peel this morning with the same knife. He plucks it ripe from a tree in the yard, its branches bent low to kiss the ground with the weight of their bounty. Granddaddy scores the lush fruit, its deep red blush purpled by the sun. The knife’s edge lifts away the delicate skin. Cradling the naked globe in his palm, Granddaddy segments slices from the pit. Plucked from his knife tip, the warm flesh fills my mouth with the nectarous taste of summer.

In an instant, the splinter is out.

The Desk

Years after the department store, which bears my grandfather’s name, is shuttered, I gain access to the abandoned Churchwell’s building. Awash with memories of accompanying him to work there as a child, I make my way to the mezzanine. There, overlooking the first floor, once crowded with counters and bustling with shoppers, tucked into a niche, stands Granddaddy’s desk, its quarter-sawn oak surface warped and buckled with rain poured from a hole in the roof.

Whenever I remember my grandfather, I see him seated there, behind this desk. It is modest, utilitarian, not fancy, but sturdy, like its owner.

With little hope of rehabilitation, I transport the desk to a local furniture refinisher. Mr. Yenni, his mouth drawn into a tight frown, shakes his head as he inspects the damage. “Leave it with me,” he says flatly.

Weeks later, I return to view the results. Inside Mr. Yenni’s shop, dim yellow light from a cracked window, clotted with dust, casts an amber glow across the glossy, red oak finish. Brass fittings around the base of each foot sparkle with polish. As I run my hand across its face, Mr. Yenni demonstrates the ingenious mechanism that, with the slightest touch, unlocks the drawers. Once swollen shut with damp, now lined with green billiard cloth, each drawer glides open on tracks smoothed with beeswax.

Now, warmed by my grandfather’s presence, I settle in to write under the east-facing window of my study, where his desk catches the dawn in its luminous veneer.

BIO: Mark Hall lives and writes in North Carolina. His stories have appeared in The Timberline Review, Lunch Ticket, Passengers Journal, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Hippocampus, The Forth River, Barely South Review, and elsewhere.