My Father's Hands

When I was born

My father’s hands were young hands.

They held me when I cried

And patted my back to sleep.

They tickled me on my tiny toes

And held my bottle while he fed me.

My father’s hands were perfect

For encompassing a baby girl.

When I was small

My father’s hands were busy hands.

They taught me the grip for swinging a baseball bat

And threaded bait onto fishing lines.

They pierced marshmallows onto campfire sticks

And steadied my bicycle when I learned to ride.

My father’s hands were perfect

For playing with his little girl.

When I was a teenager

My father’s hands became sick hands.

Rheumatoid arthritis bent them, giving him pain.

They wrung themselves together when I started to rebel,

When I wore too much makeup, tight shirts, and high heels.

They gripped me by my shoulders when I lied

Then held me close when I said sorry and cried.

My father’s hands were perfect

For loving me unconditionally.

When I became a mother, too young,

My father’s hands were helping hands.

They rocked my daughter with his magic touch

When I needed to rest, four hours’ sleep not enough.

They tucked her in her crib for me

While I took night classes to earn my degree.

My father’s hands were perfect

For supporting me.

When I got married,

My father’s hands were relieved hands.

They held my hand as I walked down the aisle

And comforted me when my marriage had trials.

They let go a little, almost tentatively,

While still remaining strong for me.

My father’s hands were perfect

For setting me free.

When I was pregnant the second time,

My father’s hands were worried hands.

Diagnosed with diabetes, I got very sick;

He opened his expanding support tool kit,

Then held me throughout the thin and the thick.

My father’s hands were perfect

For nurturing me.

When I was pregnant yet again,

My father’s hands became crippled hands.

He became critically ill,

Spending three months in the hospital.

The day my son was born

Was the day my father finally went home.

My father’s hands were perfect

For beholding me.

Two weeks ago

My father’s hands became ravaged hands.

Infection spread into them as I stood helplessly by,

His fingers ash-black; blood tears I cried.

My father gifted his love and reassurance

Even in the midst of his struggle to live.

My father’s hands were perfect

For comforting me.

Today my father’s hands are gone,

They are in God’s hands.

They cannot encompass me, play with me,

Love me unconditionally, support me, or set me free.

They cannot nurture me, behold me, or comfort me.

They cannot give him any more pain.

My father’s hands are perfect,

Forever in my memory.

COMING UP…

Books & Projects:

·      All four of my books are available online at Amazon, Chapters-Indigo and Barnes & Noble. You can also find them at select Chapters-Indigo and El Hombre de la Mancha bookstores.

·      I finished writing my fifth literary fiction, a psychological drama that explores the complexities of mental illness and trauma. Stay in touch by signing up for my blog or following me on social media to find out when it will be published.

Reviews & Interviews:

·      You can read, listen or watch a large selection of reviews and interviews on my website.

Events:

·      There are no events currently scheduled in my calendar.

YouTube Channel:

·      Watch The Rogue Scorpion trailer.

·      Watch The Holding trailer.

·      Watch The Healing trailer.