Inheritance
28 December 2022
An old metal toolbox, lock broken, dented, streaked with paint,
Sitting on the corner of Dad’s worn workbench.
Precious beyond measure, those old wrenches, altered, trusted.
Some twisted and bent, others ground, origins faint, rusted.
Years spent working, an old wooden garage behind the house,
Rented for ten dollars, a pit hand dug in the dirt.
Home shared, long late hours with an occasioned brown field mouse.
Dad worked a second job, late at night, second job, curing auto hurts.
Traded to his own sclerotic back, arm wrenched.
There was little treasure, little gold to measure.
Little wealth reflected in the obituary notice, not much,
Home drawn art, poetry, love letter, photos, Dad’s touch.
Little a banker could value.
I eyed that toolbox.
My inheritance he carried every day,
My reflections on years spent in his care.
His songs, his pain, his ability with a baseball, a horseshoe.
Good, bad, success, failure, unmountables, uncountables,
Keeping us safe, fed, loved, together, in historic time.
My inheritance was the ragged edge of that 75 year toolbox.
My treasure, his gift. Mine.
