the sound of him working downstairs,
in our basement, out of which he re-
emerged, seeing the magic in our eyes:
wood toys, used but well waxed skiis,
advent reefs, bikes like new,
diningtable extensions so all
his grandkidsmight sit with him,
and other knick-knackinventions,
sometimes driving mom crazy,
but always garnering significant
approvalfrom us all, for this was
his true art form.
he could fix everything and he still does.
last Christmas I found myself getting
food from the pantry and suddenly
stopped, hearing the usual prayerful
meditation of my father fixing up the
world around him one flat tire at a time.
I listened to the noise of him working,
telling my heart to remember these
sounds, storing them up for the years
ahead, when all I will have is the music
of my father working. of my father loving.