I originally wrote this piece, My Dad’s Hands, a Father’s Day Tribute, in response to one of the daily writing prompts I do from the book “A Year of Writing Dangerously,” by Barbara Abercrombie. It was never meant to see the light of day, just an exercise in words and description and a way to push my creativity to new lengths. But then my mom told me she was looking for things we could share about my dad at his 80th Birthday party, so I reluctantly volunteered to read this piece to the small group of family that gathered to celebrate him.
When the time came, though, everything in me wanted to pull out and pass the buck, knowing that if I read it out loud I wouldn’t be able to get past the first few paragraphs without breaking down in tears. (Y’all know I’m a crier, right?) But pushed on by my mom and my husband, I did. Sure enough, I didn’t make it without crying. Like, that ugly cry where your face gets all blotchy and snot is flowing. That’s what I did, sometimes the only thing anchoring me to reality was Jeff’s hand, placed gently on my back, pushing me on.
Turns out, though, that my fears about ugly crying were for naught. Because I wasn’t the only one. So I guess it was worth it.
This piece is a celebration of my own dad, who I love so dearly and so deeply. And all dads, both biological and non, who step in and hold their kids up when they need it most with strong, capable hands and big, loving hearts.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.
My Dad’s Hands, a Father’s Day Tribute
Big. Strong. Capable.
These are my dad’s hands.
Tan. Sinewy. Hairy.
These are my dad’s hands.
When I was little, they held me tight, secure in their bear-like grasp. So capable.
In them I was safe.
Those hands were a harbor in choppy waters. The net that caught me when I fell, held me up as I learned to walk. Then run. Then eventually fly.
These are my dad’s hands.
Not rough. But sturdy. Full of life and carriers of wisdom and care.
Not giant, but substantial, to a child, the strongest there is.
My dad’s hands held my world for so long. They seemed like a haven when the outside seemed uncertain and the air was filled with static. When nothing felt right, his sturdy hands held steady. Held firm.
My hands are small. Thin. Tiny. In his, they were lost, swallowed up. This hasn’t changed. Yet then and now, my tiny hands are held steady in his balance, shielded when no one else seems to understand. With him, I have never felt the need to hide or pretend. An unspoken thread of similarity and compatibility. No words, just calm waters, and understanding, steady footing in rough terrain.
I remember one childhood heartbreak in particular. You know the kinds where the world seems to be ending and you are swallowed up by grief? It was one of those. I was retreating into my shell, keeping myself captive to my sadness, stuck within the cornflower blue wallpaper of my tiny childhood bedroom.
It was my dad that broke through my jailer’s cell. Strong enough to crush the bars I had put up to keep any comfort out. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask me to explain. He simply held me, the lanky limbs of not yet womanhood engulfed in his arms. He held me up when I was crumbling in his steady hands.
That night he gave me a handkerchief to dry my tears. He always carried them in his back pocket. He still does. I kept it for ages. Keeping his comfort close even if I was far away.
My dad’s hands don’t work quite as well as they used to. That steadiness, overtaken by pain and stiffness. Some of the strength, sapped by age and time. They don’t hold things as well as they used to. Their grip, not quite as firm. They don’t feel as secure to him.
I know that this hurts more than just his body. It hurts his heart. It is a passage of time, a physical reminder of youth dissipating in the background of life. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at his hands now.
But what he might not know is that his hands will always be the same for me. Time doesn’t alter the strength and steadiness I feel when I am near him. It can take so much from us, but it can’t take that.
For me, my dad’s hands will forever be the same. Strong. Steady. Capable. Calm.
This is who my dad is. This is who he will always be. And time or distance or life will never take that from him. Or me. These will always be my dad’s hands. Until the end of my days.
Peace, love, and Father’s Day,
Meg
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Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.