I wrote this in 1979, when my son was about 2 month's old. It isn't very good, but when it was published in our local paper for Father's Day it spoke to several people and now that my father has just passed away, I think it's time it went on the blog.
My father's hands are those of an ordinary man,
but yet extrordinary,
for they belong to him.
Large, long fingered hands,
scarred from years of hard, hard work,
stiff from years of hard, hard living.
In my girlhood I remember,
grease and dirt, the signs of a day's work
under his fingernails.
Scraped knuckles, tired looking hands
brushing my hair.
Strong hands doing gentle things.
I will always love those hands.
I always knew I would marry a man
with my father's hands,
and I have.
My husband's hands look much too old to
belong to him.
When I see them,
I am overcome with such love,
for they look the way they do
because of his love for me.
Dark tanned, rough, dry, callused hands
that work every day to make our living,
and then come home to hold our infant son.
When I look at my baby's hands,
so tiny, soft and perfect,
I can see that some day he too may have
the hands of his father and grandfather.
Somehow that makes me very sad,
but also very, very proud.