For Dad whose Hands Weave Hickory Quite Perfectly



You were ready to begin
your apprenticeship
in '76.

Mom lost the baby,
a girl.

I cannot say that I am sorry.

Our hands were introduced
two years later,
on a sticky hot
summer of '78
morning.

I ran one day late
as usual,
plopped straight into
working, callused hands
eager to name
their first-born daughter.

Rebecca, you called me.

Rebecca Faye.

Your hands carried
a wife and new baby home,
opened doors and windows
for us,
fed chocolate squares
to my hungry lips.

They built swing sets
in the yard,
fed puppies
planted roses
brought a brother home
when I asked for one
and did not pounce
when Scott and I decided
it was perfectly normal
to dip younger cousins into
50 gallon drums
filled with mud.

Your hands taught me
how to roast marshmallows
swing from a grapevine
pluck mushrooms
hold a fishing pole
and watch the line
for movement.

They tended quite delicately
to a sick mother,
carried her through
the front doors of a hospital,
waited patiently and expectedly
while she slept through a coma,
let go when she finished
buried a wife
and held our heads
on either side
of your hips
as the three of us
wept
for our loss.

Your hands learned
to bake birthday cakes
pick out Easter dresses
iron the pleats straight
and tie bows low in the back
when I could not.

They held my tiny hands
during class parties
as I clumsily opened Valentines
and mothers busied themselves
arranging cupcakes
paper napkins
and glasses
of warm punch.

Your fingers taught mine
to form and hold the G chord,
pointed out sassafras root
dry land fish
wild grapes
huckleberries,
taught me how to build a fire
in a wood burning cook stove,
lifted limp frames off the floor
pressed sickness from my belly
picked up a crowbar
and attempted to pry my broken body loose
from a cage
of twisted metal.

Your hands began
the foundation for a home
poured concrete footers,
helped me pen poetry on top of them
before the concrete dried.

They retreated to the woods
in silent prayer each morning
came back
sent us off to see the world
through our own eyes,
shaped two babies
whose lives
could have
so easily
become
tragic.

Still,

your hands hold us high
weave hickory into happiness
and are the comfort
we run to first
in those moments
when we can not heal
ourselves.

I don't think
I will ever encounter
hands quite as loving
or as beautiful
or as humble
or as wise
as yours.

'78  introduced me to
the finest set of palms
I've ever met.