The final hours of the year fall,
robe me in twilight
beneath the hood of an eight-year-old
BMW. My oil-stained fingers slip
between shifting shadows, fumbles
fading afternoon light. I kiss

the skinned knuckles on my left hand,
curse the standard socket in my right,
stomp into the corner of the garage, disrupt
the order of solitude with slamming
drawers, rummaged contents.

Top shelf, right corner: just within reach
on tip toes and the touch of fingertips:
a toolbox. I blow cobwebs
from its metallic heaviness, mites confetti
around my head, rub my hand across its lid
and faded black letters. My father’s name.

Three syllables. My fingers recite
the name—my name too—over and over.
I have carried his name across the earth
for six decades. I trace each letter on the box
and from forty-one years of dust rise
the rhythm of his voice and steady footfalls,
the courage of his calloused hands,

his weathered character and dignified deathbed.
I flip the latch, raise the lid.
Turtleneck sweaters, Old Spice, Jack Daniels
and light escapes, reminds me
that I have everything
I will ever need to finish the job.