He could live for weeks--months
on powdered gatorade and adrenaline.
I heard he built a truck, once, from the ground up,
out of things he found in the Pacific Northwest--
taught me how to drive a manual but my hands were too small
to grip the stick shift that was an evergreen or
ride out a clutch the size of Crater Lake.
I was frustrated but he read me my favorite story
for, like, the millionth time, sang me to sleep
and dreams of being a grown up.
Grayer now, weaver's hands, nurse's hands,
hands that built me a treehouse
move slower but, I suspect,
with more meaning--
weighted down by memories--
he finally begins his memoirs
but all I can read is
"Who says there are no heroes anymore?"
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