My Father’s Hands
28April2012
My father’s hands had one purple, hammer-banged thumbnail.
My father’s hands were big and bulky; strong and able; kindly
stern, and sternly kind.
My father’s hands were graceful and delicate one minute; clumsy
and crude the next.
My father’s hands gave comfort, sympathy, understanding,
delight.
My father's hands added a whimsical flourish to the simplest gestures.
My father’s hands tapped, trilled, and tickled the ivory
keys.
My father's hands plucked and strummed the flamenco strings.
My father’s hands hammered, sawed, torqued, carved,
polished, ground, wrenched, sanded, scrolled, …and screwed.
My father’s hands splashed, and speared, and paddled through
Pacific waters; navigated and flew through calm and stormy skies; wandered by
foot and by car to discover abandoned shacks and broken down old red barns; pointed.
My father's hands focused, clicked, and captured wind-blown waves, lonesome trees, rolling hills, and
s-curved highways.
My father’s hands were the kind of strong I am still trying
to be.
I would give anything to hold, just one more time…
My father’s hands.
this is beautiful <3
ReplyDeleteThanks for taking the time to comment! df
ReplyDeleteI loved this piece. You were so lucky to have him as a father, mentor and friend. He was the gift of a life time. Still up for a little road trip to Diego?
ReplyDeleteThis makes me miss my father more... Thank you for sharing. We'll all get through, one way or another, carrying on...ya, slogging on...
ReplyDelete