He left a toolbox rusting in the rain,
each wrench a fossil of a fight we didn’t have.
I learned his love by what went unsaid—
the way he’d sand a splintered doorframe
long after midnight, angry at the wood
for being less than straight.

Copy
We spoke in chores:
*Fix the gutter. Tighten the latch.*
Once, he gripped my shoulder at the dump,
watching our old couch sink into filth.
His hand stayed till the fabric vanished—
the closest we ever came to *I’m sorry*.

Now, his hands shake pouring coffee.
I study his face for cracks in the concrete,
find none. We talk about carburetors,
the stubborn oak that splits the fence.
When he leaves, I find a jar of nails
on my porch—bent, but sorted by size.

Tonight, I’ll build something useless:
a birdhouse without holes, a shelf too thin to hold
anything but dust. He’ll nod, say *Good joints*,
and mean *I know I failed you*.
I’ll say *Pass the screws*, and mean
*I failed us both the same*.