But maybe also a little disappointed...? I mean, sure, I helped him build the doghouses, but I did more painting than measuring or cutting. I pretty much left him alone to the task, while I was off doin' other stuff, my own thing. I basically only lent a helping hand when he asked for assistance. I liked to watch him though. I always have. Ever since I was a kid. Some of my earliest memories involve the sound of the table saw and the smell of wood, and sawdust, sawdust everywhere, in my eyelashes and hair. Toty laughing as we played with the stuff, grabbing it up by the handfuls, making little piles. And the sunshine over us all, warm. My father smiling, always smelling of wood and sweat. Mom would be there, too, sometimes watching, sometimes helping. We were all so happy back then... sometimes I still can't figure out what went wrong.

*shrug* In the end it doesn't matter, I guess. 'Apa's dead now, and I've got no one left to teach me. What I mean is, erm... I'm not sure what I mean anymore. It's all because I was outside just now, fixin' (or trying to fix) Mak'. Damn car won't start. It's the electrical wiring in him that's been getting worse. So I'm trying to get him to start again before Tuesday, because 'Ama will start going back to her regular night schedule and we'll need separate cars again. I checked him over. The battery's fine (leaking acid, but hey, it still runs). The problem seems to lie in the starter motor assembly. That, and I believe I need new battery cables and terminals. Shit, Mak's whole electrical system probably needs replacing. But I'm broke now, so one thing at a time. And I believe he needs the starter assembly the most. That'll hold him for at least another week when I'll get paid and be able to afford the rest of the crap.

Case being, I'm there, right? Getting all grimy and lovin' it, taking my car apart, singing along to some Blink 182 as it plays in my head. Well, I get to a tight spot of loosening some bolts that I can't quite reach. I try different tools, to no avail. And I get frusterated because this is precisely another reason I used to bicker with P'fas all the damn time: he'd take my tools to use for his trade. I'm missing so many wrenches and screwdrivers it's not even funny. He'd borrow stuff, and never put it back. I have tons of incomplete tool kits thanks to the man, I swear. How do I even get them back, now that he's dead? So yep, you got it, time to look through the old man's crap. One of his toolboxes is in the laundry room, tucked away on a shelf. It's pretty big, so chances are I might strike gold. I lug the thing down and outside, where I plop down on the ground next to Patrick (who mews automatically) and proceed to scatter the contents everywhere. Turns out, I don't find what I'm looking for. Instead, out pour the memories. I think (actually, I know) that's what's got me in this nostalgic mood. Measuring tape, red chalk powder, screwdrivers, sandpaper and sanding blocks, carving tools, the works. As I ran my fingers over them all, I suddenly remembered the feel of my father's hands: strong and firm in my childhood, then slowly growing ever softer as his life neared its end, without ever losing any of that leathery aspect of them. When he was in the coffin, I didn't want to touch him. I only did so when family was around and that was because I was supposed to. (My stomach knots into itself.) His hands were frozen, like clay. Cold clay. He was like a plastic manaquin. *shudder* That was not my father anymore. I understood that. I wanted nothing to do with the corpse, I wanted so badly to get away from it. And yet I had to kiss it on the forehead on more than one occasion. I pursed my lips inwardly everytime I had to do so.

And I miss him now. I can tell, even without reading back on this thing, that most of my past entries since he died have probably been about him, and how much I miss him, and how miserable I am. Nobody likes a whiner. I am aware of that. And I'm okay, really. To the outside world, at least, I go on. I'm strong and shit. I guess I just burrow myself here when I need to get this off my chest. Because I can still remember what that cold dead forehead felt like against my lips, and I don't want to remember him like that. I want the sunshine, and the sawdust everywhere. I want the laughter and children's voices and the smell of wood and sweat.

The day I lose my mother will be the day I lose my mind. She's all I have left now, the only remnant of my past. There are nights (like last night) where I cannot sleep for fear that I'll wake up in the morning and she'll no longer be there. What the hell will I do then? I get so paranoid and I can't help it. I'm afraid of her going to sleep. What if she doesn't wake up again? What can I do?