The day I moved into my first apartment, you helped me carry all those boxes up three flights of stairs. You complained the whole time but still insisted on doing it yourself. “I’m not that old yet,” you kept saying. When everything was finally inside, you looked around at the empty rooms and said “Well, it’s a start.” Then you handed me a toolbox. It was yours from when you first got married. Some of the tools had rust on them, but you said they’d last another 50 years if I took care of them. You died in your sleep two months later. I used those tools to hang pictures of you on my wall. Every time something breaks, I open that toolbox and feel like you’re still helping me fix things. I miss you Uncle Jack.