My Dad is 90 now and lives many states away. I don't get to see him often in person. Sometimes something my son does strikes a note within me that I remember sitting on his lap and spending a quick moment with him.
Holding Hands
He
traces my fingers
As
I remember doing with my father
My
hands small and scarred
With
kitchen mishaps
He
asks about each mark
The
colors varied,
I
had not noticed
As
they are all old wounds
To
me blending in the same
When
I look at them
But
he asks for the story
Of
each noticing
 |
| My son and Dad a few years ago |
The
shape and shade
Wondering
out loud
The
topography and type
When
and how
Wanting
the details
As
if he were memorizing
Me
piece by piece
Starting
with my hands
And
the stories contained
Within
them
I
think back to my father’s
Giant
sausage fingers
The
stiff looking knuckles
But
knowing they performed
The
most delicate of surgeries
Wondering
how could
Such
thick lumbering phalanges
Fly
through intricate operations
To
make people all better
I
felt the strength
Of
his grasp
And
I asked for stories
In
his many marks
But
he didn’t remember any
His
memories were about others
And
places and things or diseases
He
paid no attention to what
Was
stamped on his skin
As
time had faded it all
He
did let me hold his hand
My
tiny girl hand
Holding
the giant’s
Warm
and comforting
My
son’s hand is almost the size of mine
He
slips his hand into mine
In
unexpected moments
Wanting
reassurance
Of
the familiar
Our
story
Laced
fingers strong
In
knowing the landscape
Not
holding onto mythical
Large
men in the sky
Though,
if I get to hold
That
giant’s hand again
I
will not hesitate
To
lace fingers with him
And
tell him my story
Not
of the scars contained
But
show him the strength of my fingers
To
hold on
To
his myth and magnificence
As
my father
Who
formed a small part of my hands
and
my son’s hands
Entwining
our stories
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