I'm thinking of my father a lot these days. I brought back some of his tools I used to borrow or I watched him use in the garage when I was a girl. His garage shelves were fascinating to my little girl self. I wonder if he noticed the traces I must have left, disrupting his stacks and arrangements; playing with his electrical tape and grease pencils, tape measures and levels... I used to help him when he used power tools (that would never happen nowadays but back then people improvised ;) ) and I was scared and thrilled at once. It was a privilege for me; my Dad trusted me and thought I was strong enough to help. I wish there was more I could do to help now.