Fixer

I found him in the garage
on a Sunday afternoon,
hands calloused, covered with oil,
copper grease, dirt.
He was hunched over an engine,
staring intently at valves, pistons,
assessing which part had gone wrong,
made it stop.

He's a fixer,
always repairing the broken things
that surround him,
trying to make them work.

I lay my head on his chest
and listen.
Deep inside, the clock ticks,
slow and strong.
I hear each second disappear
as we lie in the half-light
of another rainy day.
It never rains but it pours,
hits the windows,
floods the garden,
wets us through.

There are parts inside me
he cannot fix.
So he holds my hand
and he tells me
I'm not really broken.