My Father’s Hands

I have my Father’s hands.
Wide palms, long straight fingers, healthy nails, veins popping out, strong and gentle.

One of the most beautiful things I have seen is his hand holding the hand of my newest Grand Niece and she just didn’t want to let him go.

I don’t want to let him go.
In his mid 80’s, my Daddy is still picking up the 2-year-old. Playing with the 4-year-old. Following (slowly) the 3-year-old. All this, as my Mother is playing up and the down the stairs with the others, she’s making up games, dropping clothespins into a milk bottle, filling up water balloons, reading stories: “One Was Johnny” – “Chicken Soup With Rice”. Stories that were read to me, from the same Nutshell Library.

They are bushwhacked when the kids go~
Exhausted.
Dead tired.
I watch them sleep.
Cautiously.

And they won’t give it up because these things are the best part of Life.
I don’t blame them.

Life is for Living.
And Kids keep us alive by holding our hands.
Tightly.

I have my Father’s hands.

Photo: Todor Atanasov - Protection http://www.freephotosbank.com/12414.html

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