The Anvil
I sat there, alone, in the stillness
of the quiet, dark shop. Absent were all
the sounds, smells, and commotion that filled the place every day. Rather than enjoy the rest, I was fussing,
fuming and fighting with myself.
Why? Why was this my lot? My place?
Surely, I was meant for something else?
Gone were the customers; but, I
could still hear them bragging, posturing, comparing, competing. “… check out this biodag Smithie
made for me! Now, that’s a dirk...” “... agh!
Just take a look at this claidheamohmor Smithie sold me!
Now, that is quality ...” “...
would you just get out of the way; I
need this plow repaired ...” On and on
and on it goes! The hammering. The noise.
The heat and smoke ...
But, I am just an anvil. My top is smooth from all the banging. The hammers get all the action. I just sit here, atop this block, and absorb
the impacts. The tools are repaired. The knives are carefully fashioned into
desired weapons. But, I am “just an
anvil”?!
Daylight is peeking in through the
shop door. And, there is Smithie,
already stoking the coal fire for the day’s work. Here he comes in my direction. “... good morning, my old friend! Another day of beating and banging. But, I can always count on you. Hammers come and go. Many a plow and scythe have been repaired on
your faithful frame. Without you, many
farms would be in trouble. And, the
knives keep the lasses busy with supper.
Sorry to abuse you; but, I need you to mold and form all these
others. If there is a flaw in your
metal, surely it has been beaten out, long since annealed, work-hardened!”
I am so sorry and ungrateful, blind to my special
place. I get to be with Smithie every
day. Only on Sundays is he absent. I guess he himself needs to be at the “Great
Forge” occasionally? But, together, we
are making this place so much better. I’d
rather be an anvil, than a hammer, and moreso, rather than a broken plow. Bring the noise, the heat, the hammering ...
let’s fix some plows and cutlery!
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