The Imperfections

Kieran Murphy, during the moonlight hours, could not be found in the pub, or at the dance hall, or boasting with the wagon men. He had in his mind a vision, something perfect and still and beautiful, something he could never get right. The nights he spent at his workbench consumed the best of him, kinship and merriment whittled away into a scrap pile behind the garden. When Kelly Mason went round to bring him milk and muffins, she always saw the most beautiful carvings. Ash, oak, sometimes cherry, all carved with the same vision of an angel, wings outstetchd above her head, her hands nailed to the cross. The angel was in agony, there was no denying it. But it was the sorrow in her eyes that brought Kelly near to tears. Kieran’s lip seemed to curl, looking at his dozens of carvings. Next week, Kelly would find none in the sitting room, and the scrap pile behind the garden would be even larger.