The nice thing about sawdust is how light fluffy and carefree it is when it's violently severed from stability and rigidity. It spews out from between the saw teeth in a steady stream all over everything in proximity and then lies there, innocent, as if it's not going to be a giant mess to clean up.
All that mess so you can stow your pretentious tchotchkes and high brow literature somewhere at eye level so your new SO can tell right away who they're going to be breaking up with in 6 months. One old bag on to another old bag.
It peers at you from the concrete floor (ideally) and begs you to drop a spark on it, so it can burn your life down around you.
Sawdust is not a keepsake as such. But you will find it in crevices for years to come, as a reminder of your DIY BS. You'll chuckle to yourself and reminisce about the time you fancied yourself a woodworker.
Look at you now, you adorable amputee. Watch yourself as you take a dustbuster to this ode to joy. And afterwards, you're free to walk back into your single-level ranch and survey the evidence as you eject leavings from the plastic canister, reattach, and reinstall your $170 sucker back onto its cradle.
It's beautiful isn't it? Your curated array. Your wrinkled wrists can traverse drawers, shelves, and record bins, grasping for a short straw to send you back into the past as you tremble with whimsy at all that was and might have been.
Now, after you've had your fun it's late and you're removing your dentures. The dull smell of pine and varnish wafts out at you from your medicine cabinet and you dunk your fake teeth into a sterile soup. You can't grind your teeth at night when they're not adhered to your jaw. It's life's little pleasures that make it worth facing the reality of entropy and its imminent domain over your cell structure.
Tomorrow your kids are coming. You'll tell them a familiar story for a while before they try yet again to get you take yourself off the road. Fat chance, bitches! You're determined to be scraped off the pavement, it's the only way to go.
As you slide into the sheets you feel the void threaten to embrace you. Equally as cold as the formerly warm space next to you. God damn is that depressing. But you're used to it. You'll shake it off like you do every night.
It's as easy as dumping lost sawdust into the trash. There's always more sawdust, hidden away in the garage. Soft and flammable. Waiting for you. See you next spring, old friends.