The white doors are stained with grit, sawdust, and ash. No matter how hard you scrub the door, it remains ever so grey. The windows dusted over, creating a hazy view when trying to peer inside. The right door is our entrance. The automatic function no longer an option. The door slides up easily revealing our place. Sawdust enveloping you, the burnt wood smell fills your nose, and it’s all so comforting. Bits and pieces of scrap wood everywhere the eye can see. Sawhorses and power tools in every corner. Stacks and stacks of stripped pallets perfectly placed to size and color. The tiny garage with the green walls, the green walls that now contain all of the things we need to make our beautiful art. The tiny white garage with the black shutters. A place that doesn’t protect our cars but protects our wood.