My Dad's Hands Bedtime came, we were settling down, I was holding one of my lads. As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight: My hands...they looked like my dad's!

I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks, there was always a cracked nail or two. And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark, his thumb was a beautiful blue!

They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough, as strong as a carpenter's vice. But holding a scared little boy at night, they seemed to me awfully nice!

The sight of those hands – how impressive it was in the eyes of his little boy. Other dads' hands were cleaner, it seemed (the effects of their office employ).

I gave little thought in my formative years of the reason for Dad's raspy mitts: The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil, rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits!

Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead, when one day my time is done. The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands will pass on to the hands of my son.

I don't mind the bruises, the scars here and there or the hammer that just seemed to slip. I want most of all when my son takes my hand, to feel that love lies in the grip.

By David Kettler Reprinted by permission of David Kettler © 1997

-- SAR01 (rauch01@yahoo.com), March 10, 2001