What Is Handed Down : Ada Limón

Smoke and sweat seeped through
your waiter's vest, and nights off you'd play
the harmonica on the rooftop, a man made
out of netting and wire with an unexpected
tenor, made of push-ups and the sound
of typewriter keys, eight-tracks and knowing
all the lyrics to all the songs. I thought you were
a celebrity, the way people shouted your name
when we walked through the plaza.
Even as a child,
I noticed your gentle way of fixing.
The first time
I saw it, it felt like a trick. The spider plant I killed
because I didn't care enough about lives other than
my own was soaked in the apartment sink until
it came back to life. My mother's clock radio you took
apart and put back together good as new, though
the war had made it so you couldn't hear
the high notes. It's selfish, I know, but I want to be
the fixer now. Show me how you
did it, all those years,
took something that needed repair and repaired it. 
~Ada Limón (from 'The Hurting Kind')