They’re bigger than mine, my daddy’s hands. I can remember practically drowning in the huge grasp of my daddy’s hand, as we walked side by side. His fingers would curl tightly around mine, and I instantly felt warm, safe and protected.
As a small child growing up, life was simple. The same routine played out every single day, and brought tranquility to a young child. My daddy’s hands were the most comforting sight! His skin was always lightly tanned, with long square fingers framing a thick, wide palm. The surface of his hands was always smooth, marred only by a few well-worn calluses that spoke loudly of his efficiency- the product of many hours spent woodworking, fixing our ever-complaining cars, mowing the huge lawn and just being “Mr. Fix-it”. The only adornment came from the plain gold band he wore on his left hand. The band that symbolized the loving commitment between him and my mom has encircled his finger for so long, it seems to have almost become a physical part of him.
I loved watching my daddy play the piano. He only knew a few tunes, and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata would cause my childish eyes to widen with awe, as the strains swirled through the air. My dreams of becoming a concert pianist mounted by the minute. Thanks to my dad’s love of music, I grew up playing piano, learning all I could – now I teach young children who remind me everyday of the little girl who used to drink in the music from her daddy’s hands.
I grew up, and still my daddy’s hands took care of me. They warmed me, fed me, cared for me, disciplined me, loved me. Funny thing is, even as I grew older and taller, I never seemed to grow into my daddy’s hands! They must have grown along with me. My daddy’s hands taught me many things – they taught me how to ride a bike, coached me in my handwriting, encouraged the practicing of my music lessons, and urged me along in my tedious typing lessons. My daddy bought me the bicycle of my dreams, in all of its pink and gray 10-speed glory! I tried to act as surprised as I could, because no one could know that I’d been snooping around in the attic and discovered the beautiful bike a few weeks before my birthday. My daddy’s hands filled the tires with air, oiled my brakes, tightened my handlebars, and raised my seat as my legs grew longer. One camping trip involved an unfortunate biking accident in which my brakes unexpectedly gave way, as I whizzed around a treacherous curve. After hurtling into a weed-entangled, marshy ditch, my daddy’s hands pulled my bike from the muck and hauled it back to our campsite, wobbly wheels and all, while I pouted and sniffled over my minor injuries – mainly my pride.
My daddy’s hands led me through childhood and reluctantly let go as I grew into adulthood and married my true love. My daddy’s hands expressed love in the best way possible – they showed it. I will never forget my daddy’s hands.
