He silked an ear of corn and turned over a potato leaf to show me a ladybug.
He said my brother didn’t mean what he said when I was pinned against a wall.
He built a two-story pen for my flop-eared rabbit, and a ramp with carpet.
He showed how to burn my name into slice of backyard oak.
He taught me how to sharpen a knife with flint and touch.
He shelled a black walnut beside my mother’s favorite lilac bush.
He wanted to know if he walked any differently after his stroke.
He cleaned the inside of my fishtank with a blue towel.
He helped me plant tulips on the grave of my first dog.
He showed how to throw crusted bread into the air for swooping blackbirds.
He hid orange juice in the back of the fridge, sweet and sharply cold.
He snuck money into my hand before I left, winking in the September sun.
He let me see how a Garter snake’s tongue makes ripples in a puddle.
He said he wasn’t afraid of death and brushed the dirt off a radish.