Inheritance

Flat as a man on his deathbed, I lie on the ground.I'm twenty-six. Ten years too late to starttinkering like this, but I never caredabout cars—a subject that seemed miles removedfrom basketball or books—back when I'd handa wrench to that shade-tree grease monkey, my father,

and then go back to shooting hoops. Now my fatherrattles orders down through the ancient engine, groundagainst which I search, with flashlight and groping hand,for the black figure of a cylinder. There. The starter.Three-eighths socket, he says, two mounting bolts to remove.It's my granddad's truck, now passed into my care.

I could sell it for a couple hundred bucks, but I caretoo much, for now. The filthy cab still holds my granddad'ssmell—cut grass and spilled gas. The key, never removed.No need. With so much dirt and oil groundinto the seat, no thief would bother. From the startit was a beast of burden, bought third-hand

for hauling his machines. Like disembodied handson the dash, the gloves I always spurned, too "tough" to careabout blisters, even when I was too small to startthe mowers myself. In the eyes of my granddada fresh-mown lawn, properly edged, was sacred ground—wildness tamed, sin wiped clean, a stain removed.

Autumn now. No yards to mow. Six months removedfrom his last breath, and the truck has been handeddown to me, who spent hot summers pacing the groundbehind his loud Lawn-Boys. I learned that faithful care

for what's not yours, and pride in your labor (like a father'sin his son), and light enough to finish what you start

are each a kind of grace. I pull off the starter.Seems simple enough—replace what's been removed,revive what's died. I crawl free, discover my dadbent over me, reaching for my greasy hand.I examine the truck: a patient under doctor's care,surgical instruments scattered on the ground.

It still won't start, needs rebuilding from the groundup. Intensive care. We give in, as if removinga respirator. I follow my dad inside to wash my hands.