I shudder anytime I see a picture of my father’s hands. Somehow, throughout the years, his hands ended up becoming to symbolize him to me. His hands were at the same time kind, gentle, wise, forceful and strong. Loose, wrinkly skin, covering thick stubby fingers. As he deteriorated and became almost unrecognizable to me or anyone else, I would take solace in looking at his hands, which always remain unchanged. I would find comfort in knowing my father still did exist; his hands were the proof. Looking at an emaciated body, with a loss of all faculties, even the simplest of tasks, I could simply just look down at his hands to see those qualities of strength I still revered. My dad became a pair of hands. But that’s not how he’ll be remembered.
My Father’s Hands