short fiction · 2026-10-09

Cedar and Memory

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The scent of cedar slipped through the workshop door, sharp and sweet, and instantly he was ten years old again, barefoot on sawdust, watching his grandfather plane a length of pine. The old man’s hands, thick with knots and splinters, moved with a rhythm that seemed to breathe with the wood. Each shave curled away like a ribbon, releasing more of that warm, resinous smell that clung to his flannel shirt and the leather of his apron. The boy reached out, fingers brushing the rough surface, and felt the vibration of the plane through the wood into his palm. A laugh escaped him, high and sudden, and his grandfather glanced over, eyes crinkling behind smudged glasses. “Careful, lad,” he said, voice rough but fond, “you’ll sap your hands if you’re not wary.” The boy grinned, smearing a streak of pine resin across his cheek, and the memory held him there, suspended in the scent of cedar and the sound of wood singing under steel.