The man worked with small details. He had no time for the big ones.
The more intricate, miniature, minute, complicated- the more complexity in the smaller the structure of things- he understood.
He was capable of manipulating details with his hands, what most need a microscope to see with their eyes.
Unless you visited his basement studio would you really find evidence of his talent with small details. All his work was unlocked away there, accessible to anyone, unknown to pretty much everyone. There were masterpieces everywhere- finished and unfinished, wood figures half whittled, or figures with form. Unless you visited this basement the only evidence of the man’s work was the curious mailbox maquette in his front lawn. It was the exact replica of his house (on a stick) made from the tinier things like rock, paper, scissors in place of concrete, plaster and saw.
But the small details aside- this man was faced with much larger ones. That he couldn’t seem to grasp…
The man and his wife had just made their appearance in court. All the usual details were present- the judge and the gavel, the lawyers and the legalities, the predicable procedures ordained and sworn over the Bible. And then it was over. The man left without his wife. The wife exited without a husband. At first it seemed the only difference.
Shock is one response to trauma, as disbelief may often be symptom of tragedy. For this man, who still felt mostly the same upon leaving the court without his wife, consider the sensation of being under a spell. (Not the sparkly, magical kind but the fuzzy and debilitating kind.) The man began feeling other differences.
His attorney with kind eyes shook his hand in a final, forever sort of way. Upon release of the grip and retraction of his arm- the man’s hand fell to his side, mysteriously light like a feather. He raised his other arm and waved his other hand in farewell as the attorney walked away. He dropped the arm and gone was his hand from gravity, floating at his side. (Now remember- this man was capable with his hands of seeing things- more things than most eyes are capable of seeing. His hands were his tools, capable of fixing, forging, fiddling the smallest things into vision.)
Suddenly his hands had no feeling. (If they were his eyes- it was as though they had shut.) The man still felt himself otherwise- feet, knees, legs, stomach, chest, heart, throat and head. His ears still heard things (although they were not listening- sadly, the case of so many a pair in this world) and he still felt his hair- taking flight in a gentle wind. But his hands caught no such sensation of any such breeze. With a sidelong glance down his hips he willed himself to raise his hands. Nothing.
And suddenly everything flashed before his eyes. It was as though he had never seen them before. Images like memories of fights and affairs of the silence and mistrust, blame and hatred, words and apologies that never counted or amounted to anything. Impressions of pain and sorrow, intermittent forgiveness upon irreparable damages. He willed his hands to raise, to lift, to move and to cover his eyes that suddenly showed him all the details he had never before come to see. Useless.