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Apr 2018
My father was
not a businessman but
a handyman, a blue
collared hope chest to
those he loved, gruff and
sturdy with stony hands and
crystal wit, sharp as the chisels
that sat in the bottom of the rough-
hemmed toolbox he fused to his gait
rarely used but sharpened, always present
a testament to the unrefined repairs
he had constructed himself through, my
father was always fixing never perfecting
he taught me how to do that how to
be imperfect yet functional, a fire
that warms not burns, a home
in winters that drag on past spring
and that I am not, but I know how to be
because he told me, he told me,
he taught me to be
good even quietly, work hard even
though it is hardly even you that
can notice what difference it makes
be strong for the weak because it is you
you are strong for that way he told me
and I know now I always must try to be
a handyman not a businessman,
a blue collared hope chest to
those I love.
JAC
Written by
JAC
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