when I stood in the bucket of your backhoe
and said, “No time, I have things to do Daddy?”
Surrounded by charred orange
and the brush strokes of fall,
you laughed and the sun's brightness
was nothing compared to you.
I have never told you this,
but the way you smell is perfect
wood shavings
car grease and sweat
and accomplishment because you can fix anything.
You don't know that when I got you for dinner
I would wait minutes outside the garage
listening to your off key whistling
and the slightly fuzzy radio.
You would add 5/8s should do it,
beckoning the swoosh and click of the tool box,
and right before my fingers reached the door handle
I could close my eyes
let out every bit of air
and feel the strength of your arms encasing me,
the stubble that caught like barbs on my cheeks.
I should have had time for you.
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