 Poor guy never got to cast his own line when he took my sisters and I fishing. I don’t think he cared. |
When I think about my dad, I think about his hands. He’s got these big strong, calloused hands, and though I have a terrible memory I memorized those hands long ago. I can see the huge knuckles, the coarse dark hair on his fingers, the way his fingernails are always nibbled way down below the skin from a lifetime of quietly fretting over finances and family matters. His hands are often dry and cracked; his wedding ring looks like it was permanently fused to his left ring finger. His fingers often smell like the pipe tobacco he smokes, a scent that fills me with both nostalgia for my childhood and guilt for not being harder on him about that habit.
For the first several years of my life his were the only male hands I would hold. I’m told I broke the hearts of my grandfathers, uncles and close family friends because I refused to have anything to do with them. I was the shy little girl crouched behind her daddy’s leg, holding his hands for safety.
They still make me feel safer than just about anything in this world.