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My Father's hands


I have hands like my father.


I want to say that they were strong.

Like unscrewing a jar-type strong.


Kind of rounded at the top they always reminded me of sausages.


He kept his nails short.


As he got older, there were age spots and freckles.


I remember standing in church next to him. He would cover my hand with his on the rail of the pew.


Often, my father’s hands sported tiny black and blue marks under the fingernails from some sort of project gone awry.


Battle scars of living.

When my dad began forgetting things as dementia took him from us, his hands were my constant.


They were familiar and sometimes a touch would let me know he was still in there.


That love supersedes all.


It is so difficult to lose a parent.

The family just isn’t quite the same.


But today, when I looked at my hands, I realized that my dad is living through me.


It’s more than just hands.


It is ideals.


It is going beneath the surface to figure things out.


It’s the approach.

It's the passion.

It's the strength to maintain.


My hands are so like my father’s.


I think my heart is too.


Honor your parents.

After all, you will carry on for them, long after they leave this earth.

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