My Father's Hands

Reaching down to test the temperature of the water
As I drew a bubble bath for my youngest child
I looked at my hand with the water running over it

For who knows what reason
My heart ached for my father
For a moment I saw his hand in the water

Something so simple and unexpected
That can jog my memory
Back to the vast cavern in which I store my precious moments

His hand gently held mine
Anytime I was close enough
For him to reach and I always let him

His hands were scarred and calloused
They were rough and stained
By hard work and years of wringing

But they were the tenderest, sweetest hands
When they were comforting me
When they were showing me how to do any number of tasks

His hands could mend my heart
After a boy had broken it
Or after a clash with Mom

I will never forget this part of him
Skilled at so many things
Humble, and unassuming, my father's hands