After he died, my mother gave me his toolbox, saying he would have wanted me to have it, the hammer kept inside as if in a little grave. When I take it out, holding its nicked and sweat-stained handle, I feel as if I am shaking his hand, from those days when he would come to fix something, pound something back, make rough-hewn sense of the day. I can still hear the rhythm of his hammering, that tack, tack, tack, as he struck and swore at the rank disruptions of the world. I remember those days when he would nail a joist, pin it into place, affix it, Mr. Fix-it, now gone for so long, with all the lost fathers, dead as doornails, their hands so far away. What a fix we’re in, all the lost sons, our days, our nights, like hammers lifted and hurled, lifted and hurled, hammering, clamoring, at this heavy, inviolate, unfixable world.