My dad's hobby was woodworking. For most of his adult life he was a school teacher at Inglewood Middle School. When he was forty he was promoted to Principal. Dad seemed happy with the new job, but said it was stressful. I guess that's why he took up the hobby of woodworking.
Attached to our two-car garage was a room about fifteen feet wide and as long as the garage. It was a perfect place for my father to pursue his hobby. A counter about twelve feet long ran along the wall to the right when you walked in. Above that was a shelf. Dad had bolted a small belt sander and a vice to the wooden counter. Fluorescent lights hung above it. He also had a table saw a few feet in front of the door. Pine boards and plywood leaned against the wall in front of the table saw. Every weekend and some evenings my father would go out to his wood shop There, he turned those pieces of ordinary wood into cute bird houses and bird feeders, or sometimes a bookcase or a table. These he would often give away to family and friends as gifts. Once, for Mom's birthday, he made her a jewellery box out of mahogany. Dad loved his hobby. Sometimes I think he enjoyed the process more than the finished product itself. It was his way of relieving stress. It seemed to help, but not enough. When I was nineteen my father suffered a massive coronary in October. He died before the ambulance arrived at the hospital with him.
As you can imagine, my mother and I were devastated by the loss of my father. He was a great person. A loving father and, according to Mom, near perfect husband. And only forty-five. His death left my mother and me to somehow muddle along. There we were: an orphan at nineteen and a widow at forty-three. Dad had a good life insurance policy, so we had no financial worries. But all the money in the world would be no substitute for him.
In August, the summer after my father died, Mom decided that it was time to clean out his wood shop "Richard, sometime, when you get a chance, maybe you should tidy the place up," she said. "I was thinking we could sell some of his tools. We don't need the table saw or sander. I think there are a few birdhouses in there that he finished before..." Her voiced began to fade and tears pooled in her blue eyes.
I felt a lump in my throat as I looked over at my mother. She was on the couch in the living room, adjacent to the chair I was in. We had been watching television when she made her suggestion during a commercial. She reached up to wipe her eyes, then ran a hand through her black hair.
"Yeah, I can do it this weekend," I told her. It was a Friday night and I had no plans for the next two days.
Mom's mouth was a tight slit now, lips quivering. A tear ran down her cheek. I had also done my share of crying over my father's death, but always behind my closed bedroom door. Dad had raised me to believe that boys don't cry. We had to be strong. Stoic. But I like to think that if it were me lying in the ground rather than him, he too would cry. I bit the side of my lower lip and walked over to Mom.
She was sniffling and wiping her bloodshot eyes. She looked up, seeming embarrassed by her weeping. Her sorrow was obvious on her face. I sat down beside her and rested a hand on her left shoulder. Her raven hair brushed over the back of my hand and I was surprised by how soft it felt. It tickled my skin. Mom turned her head towards me. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Instead, she crumpled against me and began sobbing into my chest. I put my arms around her and she clutched me like a drowning man holding onto a life preserver. She quaked against me, wetting my t-shirt with her tears.
After a few minutes Mom straightened her back and brushed away strands of hair that were clinging to her wet cheek. Her eyes met mine, blue and shiny with tears. She kissed my cheek, then rubbed it, wiping away her lipstick. A faint laugh escaped her mouth.
"I'd be so lost without you, Richard," she said in a shaky voice. "You're all I've got now."
I nodded, knowing how she felt, or at least as best I could. Losing your husband was not the same as losing your father. The pain is different, although just as real for each person. "You're all I've got too, Mom," I said. I ran my hand up and down her back, trying to comfort her.
Mom heaved and sighed in ragged breaths. She wiped her teary eyes once more, then raised them to meet mine. Her expression had changed now. In her eyes I could see her love for me. I smiled and kissed her rosy cheek, hoping she'd realize how much I loved her too. Her skin felt warm and damp with tears against my lips. Mom rested against my chest once more, sliding her arms around my waist. I could feel her hand running up and down my spine. That's when it all changed for me.
While holding my mother on the couch a flood of sensations rushed through me. I could smell the scents of her perfume and shampoo. Her silky hair was teasing the side of my face and neck. Her hand was still moving over my back and it was very soothing. I let myself relax as my right hand slid up her back, over the strap of her bra beneath her blouse and towards her shoulders. She moved, holding me tighter.
It was then that I was very aware of how her breasts were pressed to me. They felt firm and large as they rubbed over my chest. I had noticed them before, perhaps in an inappropriate way, but only by sight. This was the first time that I was aware, very aware, of how nice they felt pressed to me. Her bra had pushed them into two round orbs, accentuating their size. I glanced down. The top three buttons of my mother's rose-coloured blouse were undone and in the V-shaped opening I could see her deep cleavage. Her firm mounds rose and fell with her laboured breathing. Her skin was as smooth as polished marble and slightly tanned from the sun. A few small freckles dotted it. A mixture of guilt and shame nearly overwhelmed me, but those were quickly replaced by lust and arousal. I could feel my cock harden inside my jeans as I grew more turned-on. Seconds later it was pushing up at the zipper. I twisted, hoping to hide my shameful condition.
"I just miss him so much," Mom sighed. "I knew I'd never get over losing Henry, but I had hoped that it would be easier by now. Some days it feels like yesterday though."
"I know. I feel the same," I told her.
Mom straightened her back and leaned away from me a little. Her left hand slid around to hold my right one. I gave her hand a soft squeeze. Beneath her soft skin I could feel the slender bones with my thumb. They felt so delicate and reminded me of how frail we really are. She gave my hand a squeeze and I looked down at her wedding and engagement rings on her finger. She hadn't stopped wearing them since Dad died. I wondered if she might and somehow found it comforting that she hadn't. Perhaps she did too. Maybe it was her way of trying to fool herself into believing he wasn't really gone. Her blue eyes moved down my chest and she wiped tears from them again with the heel of her hand. When I noticed her gaze linger on the bulge in my jeans I felt panicky. My pulse quickened and sweat formed on my palms. I think I noticed a faint smile appear on her face, just for a moment, then it was gone. She looked back up at me.
"I'll clean the wood shop out tomorrow," I said. I was desperate for something to say to interrupt the silence.
"That will be fine. There's no rush," she said. "I was just thinking it should be done sometime. There's no need to hang on to all that stuff. But if there's anything at all that you want, keep it."
"Okay. I'll see what there is. Some of the tools might come in handy," I told her.
