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by Jill
Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #451964
Remembering my father and seeing myself in our hands.
Two Generations of Hands

Look at your hands…
What do you see?
I see my father’s hands…
Hands that scolded me and
Hands that held me as I cried bitter tears.
Hands that clutched a cane on my wedding day.
Hands that shook with anger or fear when I was hurt.
Hands that beckoned me when I felt unworthy… or ashamed.
Arthritis and age turned my father’s hands
Swollen, wrinkled, bent and gnarled.
Hands that hurt him.
He could barely sign his name and only then… in pain.
I look at my hands and sometimes curse the disease that has made them
Swollen, wrinkled, bent and gnarled.
Then, I remember my father’s hands~
As I scold my son and
Hold him as he cries bitter tears.
As I clutch a cane to often support my unsteady gait.
As my hands shake with anger or fear when my son is hurt.
When I beckon my son when he feels unworthy or ashamed.
Then, I remember~
The love in the hands that held me tight.
The compassion found in each swollen and gnarled knuckle.
The refuge I found in each bent and painful fingertip.
Then, I realize~
I have my father’s hands.
And, I am proud.

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