June 13, 2011
My dad had remarkable hands. Storied hands. Masculine, fortified man hands. Hands so beautiful, I sometimes couldn't help but stare and daydream of all the amazing things they've accomplished.
They were muscular hands, with thick leathery skin. He built stone walls on his farm with those hands and wooden bridges and whole rooms. As children, he built us the best tree house high up on oak tree with those hands.
They were steady hands. Hands so stable and unwavering that for hours he could perform the most intricate of surgeries. Fix an aorta, remove a gallbladder, save a life or perfectly pierce my ears on the operating room table.
They were heavy hands. Hands my brothers never wanted raised and threatening them when they were misbehaving. I, of course, never had to worry about that.
They were gentle hands. Hands so tender and soft that they could delicately cradle his newborn grandchildren. He walked me down this very aisle almost ten years ago holding my hand in his easeful and comforting grip.
They were talented, gifted joyous hands. Allowing him to take pleasure in the things he loved. Guiding his tractor through his fields, planting his vegetable garden, turning the pages of history books, pruning his fig trees, delicately fixing anything needing to be fixed, and vigorously twirling the napkin at the front of the Dupkie line.
His hands were his gift and he used them purposefully. They were his livelihood, our livelihood. I will miss holding them. I will miss all the love he showed through them, to me, my mom, my brothers and his grandchildren.
