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A year last summer Flea repaired my life--

drilled mortises, installed a new screen on

the porch door and stopped the damn 

leaking of the bathtub faucet. The basics

atwhich I had proved singularly hopeless. 

He worked silently, the strong chin steady

as he turned the Phillips head screws.

Measure twice, cut once, and the joints 

fit snug. The simple miracle of carpentry.

When he finished, he wiped his big hands 

on a towel with a cluster of grapes on

the corner. I watched awhile, admiring 

the handyman’s grace, how he patiently

put my house in order. Now he sits at

home, watching the frozen fields. The

mitre lieson a bench in failing light. He

says he doesn’t want us to see him

this way. ”Look to the hinges. Remember

me this way”. I understand. And so I do.