My Father's Hands

At fifty-four, my hands
are no longer
the graced young hands
of my youth,

I've noticed the way my
nails are changing,
more susceptible to
strength,
broader in shape,
better than before
(I think to myself).

On certain days, I see in the
veins on the back of my hands
the bloodlines that coursed
through my father's,
his blood
in me.

I've not the strength of
my father's hands;
his were talented,
putting up homes,
making things work,
and I only spin
tales and dreams.

I've fenced in cattle with
my hands, typed briefs,
cared for babes,
and fed many people,
with my hands.

But I think of
my father's hands
when I look at mine,
and miss his strength.

Then, I pray,
hoping that mine
will age longer
than his did,
because I dearly miss
his holding
of these hands,
and I would not want
my child to miss me.

Not yet.

©KRJ
9 May, 2000
Revised, 6-2-2006



In Memory of RHR
6-2-23 - 9-2-88

[This message has been edited by Sunshine (06-15-2006 09:32 PM).]

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______________Ratleader______________

I hope someday you get the chance to live like you were dying....
~Tim McGraw

Karilea,
Yet another chance, pointed out by you, for me to remember my dad too. Much love in this that makes me warm at my own memories for which I now thank you.

If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane,
I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again.