by Rebecca Taylor

**Previously published in Perspectives Magazine**

What am I? I am glad that you asked because I have a great story to tell you. I began my life as a hand saw with a wooden handle and a metal blade. I worked hard and sharpened my teeth on wood and helped my master to get his work as a carpenter done. But, when I grew old and my master retired, I was sold in a garage sale. My handle was rickety, and my blade was rusty from the years of hard work that I had done. I was scared of what was going to happen to me. I didn’t want to be tossed into the garbage because I wasn’t as useful as I used to be. Because of my age and wear and more people using power tools, I knew that the likelihood of someone wanting to buy me was unlikely. I sat out on a table in the sunshine all day on Saturday and barely anyone looked at me. This made me sad, but I understood. It was raining on Sunday and we were moved from the outside into a garage. Less people stopped by to see me and the other items for sale, but we still had some visitors. We could hear children playing and adults talking in the multi-family sale. I enjoyed hearing the sounds of people enjoying life. I was nervous though of what would happen at the end of the sale if someone didn’t buy me.


But I was fortunate because I never had to find out. Near the end of the day, a man came and bought me. He took me home to his garage and began to draw on me with some sort of chalk. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but there was a mirror in the room, and I could see the designs that he was putting on my metal body. There were images of trees and flowers and I was looking forward to seeing where this man’s creativity would go. When he was finished drawing on me, he left for the night. I went to sleep feeling content on his workbench. The next morning, the man returned carrying a cup of coffee in his hand. He sat down and looked me over while he sipped on his hot beverage. Then, he got out some sort of tool and because to make careful and detailed cuts where he had made the design. I have since learned that the tool is called a plasma cutter and it is a favourite for metal artists like the man who had bought me. The sparks from the plasma cutter didn’t hurt me and neither did the cuts. I was simply in awe of the man’s talents as I watched what he was doing in the mirror. When he was finished, he buffed me and then clear coated me, and then left me on the workbench to dry. A few days later, the man came back and picked me up. He tied a red bow to my handle and then headed outside and put me on the backseat of his grey pick-up truck. The ride wasn’t long, and we soon arrived at a party. I could tell because of all the banners that said ‘Happy birthday’ on them. I was added to a pile of presents and was so pleased when the young woman whose birthday it was finally saw me. She thanked the man who had made me for the exquisite gift of repurposed art. Now, I live on the woman’s wall in her office. She looks at me everyday with a smile on her face. I was once old, but I have been made new and will live forever in my new form as wall art. I couldn’t have asked for a better retirement. I am still a saw, just a different version of what I once was.