Gary

He was dying
Ravaged by an
Aggressive cancer
In his brain

When his uncle,
My father, died
Some three years
Ago he asked if he
Could have a small
Tool from his shop

A talisman of
The man he so
Admired who had
Taken him under
His wing when
His own father
Died suddenly when
He was a boy of ten

Along with Sunday supper
And a framed photo
Of him with my Dad
I brought a well used
Screwdriver with a handle
Covered in blue paint

Is this mine to keep?
He said, holding it in
The hand that still worked

I’ll treasure this and
Put it with the my special things
He said from his bed

It lay next to him
For those few more days
Until he too died
And joined the fellow
Craftsman he so loved.