My Uncle Harvey could fix anything. Toaster, truck, broken heart — he'd just nod, grab a tool, and get to work.
When he passed, the toolbox came to me. Red Craftsman, three drawers, rust on the latches.
I kept it in the back of my van for years. Used it for work, sure. But I never really opened it.
Last month, I finally sorted through it. Found a half-punched coffee loyalty card in the bottom drawer. A passport renewal notice from 1999. He never renewed it. Never went anywhere.
The tools were worn. Handles smoothed down from gripping. Every one of them had been used for something real.
I realized he gave me the one thing he had to give. The patience to take something broken, take it apart, and build it back better.
I'm fifty-two years old. I've been fixing other people's things my whole life. Maybe I can learn to fix my own.