Inheritance

My grandfather's hands

had a language of their own.

Thick-fingered, unhurried,

they knew how to fix things:

the hinge that kept sticking,

the radio that picked up static.

He never explained.

He just started working,

and you watched if you wanted,

and sometimes you learned.

I find myself now

doing the same small repairs.

The same unhurried movements.

The same refusal to stop

until the thing works properly

or decides it won't,

and even then

there is no frustration.

Just a look.

A pause.

The same calm consideration

of what else might be tried.

I don't know if this is grief,

exactly.

It doesn't feel like grief.

It feels more like inheritance.

Like something passed on

not through words or will

but through the hands,

through repetition,

through standing next to someone

while they work.

Through watching long enough

that the body remembers.

I fixed the kitchen drawer yesterday.

The one that sticks in summer.

I used his method.

I don't know how I knew it.

My hands knew.

His hands knew.

Somewhere in between,

something was kept.