my father's hands

My father's hands were never young in my memory. But they held mine as we walked in the parking lot. My father's hands were never one color. They were ruddy with loads of blue veins. My father's hands were never holding my mom's in my memory. They were always holding mine. My father's hands typed on the typewriter faster than I could believe. I thought he had a secretary because he didn't know how to type. I was shocked when I learned he did. My father's fingers were never as crooked as they are now. They were never as beautiful as they are now. My father's hands have not held mine in a long time. I have felt them pat my back perhaps with a little too much slap, but I know they love me. My father's hands are not close to me now, like his voice is. My father uses his hands to pick up the phone. He uses them to drive his car, and I hope he can drive it safely. His hands did not pick up the phone when he recently was in a car accident. Instead, he was wringing them, worrying about my state of mind as I contemplated divorce, my lover.

My father uses his hands to protect me as he knows how. He wants to pick up the pages of my divorce from the fax machine to make sure I'm doing things in a way that will keep me safe, secure my best interests. Today my father's hands fingered a piece I wrote him for Father's Day. I have been so consumed since falling in love, out of marriage. He saw today that it was not long ago that I was consumed with love for him. My father's hands were never weak, even with IVs in them. He went through chemo recently and never used his hands to call anyone to complain. When we would talk, he would tell me about the amazing people he was meeting going through chemo, about how professional, kind, and full of expertise the medical staff at the Med Center is. My father's hands have been responsible for so many people. While perhaps he never used them to change a diaper, he used them for everything he knew how to do for us, from making money, to showing us passion with his engagement in history. My father's hands never shook like they did over my mom, taking flowers to her grave. My father's hands never met one another like they do over his daily prayers to her. My father's hands never held a body he loved like my mom's. My father's hands never wished for anything like they wish for the existence of a heaven where he can see my mom again. My father's hands are never so gentle as when he pets the cats I have given him. My father's hands are always dutiful as he changes the kitty litter, puts the checks in the mail when I need them.

My father's hands will rest whitely in a coffin some day, just as the hands of his parents rested. But his hands will never rest as they push me forward, to be my best, make him proud. My father's hands move my hand along as I write, the one true gift he always recognized and cherished of mine. My father's hands will never rest. They write, too. They preserve the world, they preserve history, they preserve my heart and my life.