On this, my father's birthday, I can recall many things that I loved about him, though many of those memories have begun to fade with the passing of time since his death.
The one image that I remember most is that of my father's hands. While the way his hands looked is engraved in my mind, the memories surrounding those hands are most special to me.
I remember his hands tying my shoes and zipping the zipper on my jacket. Once, he zipped my chin as well and those hands wiped my tears in apology.
His hands clapped in sync with mine at hockey games, which we frequented often. They bought pink cotton candy on a stick for a little brown haired me.
I can still imagine his hands letting go of a baseball as it headed towards my mitt or how they rarely missed a frisbee thrown their way.
Those hands held mine while we danced to the Bee Gees, me standing on his brown deck shoes. I remember walking around the block most evenings holding onto his index finger, looking up at all six feet five inches of him.
When I was seven and had a seizure, he kept me from biting my tongue by putting that index finger in my mouth. He had a scar on his knuckle forevermore from where I bit down and broke the skin.
Over the years, I watched him patiently sanding wood, planing boards and carving with his knife. His hands tied knots, steadied a keel and checked the wind with a lick on his finger.
Those hands made a mean barbeque rib dinner with homemade fries and coleslaw. They wrapped birthday presents in the comics pages. They held a coffee cup every morning while they flipped through the morning paper.
They were strong hands, hands not afraid of work or wound. But most of all, they were hands that gave much love and tenderness. They taught me that people were good and kind and patient. They taught me the value of hard work and of being creative.
When my father passed away, I sat by his bedside praying for him for some time. I held those hands for one last time and studied them hard so that I would never forget the love they had given. I pray that my own hands will always serve my family with love and that they will be a source of joy and peace to all they touch.
