My Father’s Hands

 

My father’s hands told stories,

Always in motion.

He would cup them around his mouth,

Just so, and whistle

Like all seven dwarves in “Snow White”.

After dinner he used his hands

To fly the sugar bowl lid,

Making U.F.O. sounds as his hands

Hovered the imaginary space ship

Through made-up space.

My father’s hands buttoned my dresses

And rubbed a dab of Brylcreem

Into my hair before school,

Furiously massaging my scalp

Until I was dizzy.

As years pass since the day

His hands waved good-bye to me

On the stairway of my apartment building

It’s been hard to see them, remember them

I wish I could feel them again

Patting me on the back in a bear hug

Or brushing my tears away

When my heart was broken.

As years pass since I watched

From the upstairs window as he

Cleared the snow off his windshield

With his bare hands

And drove away

From our last visit

It is harder to remember

The feel of his hands

This makes me weep.

This makes me search

My mind for memories

Of my father’s hands.

 

© Diane E. Dockum, 2014