My fathers hands are as familiar as my own.
They have strength.
Rough, rigid, and cracked edges.
Strain from working. Painted creases.
Yet they show love.
There is tenderness when being held.
Those hands I used to massage during church services as a child.
Those hands that held me when I cried.
Those hands that spanked me when I needed punishment.
Those hands that fix my car.
These are the hands that dial the numbers to call me.
These are the hands of my earthly father I reach for.
These are the hands that I hold still.
These are the hands that have went through much.
That handed in money to pay for bills.
That put my family through everything.
These are my dad's hands.
Strong, durable, hard-working, loving, kind.
A metaphor of my dad's life.
A life well lived.