My Father

The last time I held my Father’s hands

we walked down the long, narrow,

seemingly endless trail through the


Those hands made snowballs with friends,

fiddled with electrical wires,

and tickled the keys whenever and wherever there was a piano.

Those hands waited patiently for years

until the time was right and they tenderly held a ring to my Mother’s hand.

His hands carried every bit of furniture

into his new house with the love of his life, and eventually made space for their children.

They cradled his children, and rocked them to sleep. They held onto the back of bicycle seats and let go when the time was right. They hoisted his children up to the ceiling just so they could hang ornaments on the Christmas tree.

Those hands provide endless love, and support to the people my Father admires, and I admire him.

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