In honor of my Daddy: a little essay I wrote for Eng describing something of significance to me. Daddy’s Hands There are in this world a few things that bring an instant sense of security to a child. For some it’s the scent of their momma’s best dish floating on the air. Others, the weight of an old family quilt on a chilly day. For me, it was my Daddy. More specifically, my daddy’s hands. It may seem silly for hands in particular to symbolize so much, but my daddy’s hands were as unique as his personality. His immense hand span was balanced out with meaty fingers. Distinct patters of freckles, some single, some large patches communing together seemed to decorate their entirety in patterns that my memory will forever recall. Daddy worked hard with his hands and they showed it. The callus’s and usual blackened nail bed spoke to me the strength that lay behind them. These hands were the symbol of security, stability and love that his actions showed me throughout my life. My Daddy’s hands were so much a part of his identity that as a very tiny girl through them alone I could identify him even when hidden beneath even the best of costumes. My dad had a side business of playing Santa, and one year my parents thought that their baby girl should also have a special visit. So, as planned when the knock came at the door, Momma answered and the room flooded with jovial “ho-ho-ho’s” and the sound of jingle bells. I distinctly remember a moment of total excitement surge through my tiny body as I realized Santa was in my house! He made his way up the staircase to the landing where I waited and reached out his to give me the surprise he had tucked away in his red sack. This gift, a Bambi story book, was extended to me with a non-gloved hand. My daddy’s hand. That memory, the actual action of his hand and my recognizing it, is still engraved in my mind. Looking this “Santa” square in the eye and in the most firm three-year old voice I could muster I pronounced, “You aren’t Santa! Those are my Daddy’s hands!” My parents were astonished that as such a tiny age, during such an exciting moment, I would unequivocally know those did not belong to Santa. As I reflect on the memory it doesn’t surprise me though. My daddy’s hands had spent countless hours nurturing me and I knew they belonged to no one but the man who gave me the security those hands represented. Recalling thoughts of growing up, my mind inevitably drifts to those hands. How they looked and felt and guided me through my life. As I grew up whether we shared a simple daddy daughter moment of learning a new skill or a life altering event that shaped my character I knew as long as I could catch a glimpse of Daddy’s hands not only was he with me, but his protection over me was as well. Their presence and that connection to stability in my life is so strongly tied together that to this day I still can’t hammer a nail, without seeing his hands show me how to hold the nail just so. “Like this, so you won’t hurt your thumb, Sissy.” And playing catch with my own kids always brings back a flood of mental snapshots. My hand inside of his. Hours spent practicing together so I’d learn how to not throw “like a girl”. “Yeah, that’s the way to do it Sissy! Now, no one will tease you for not being able to get the ball to second!” And in the most terrifying time of my life, it was his hand that I saw jostling my leg, rousing me from sleep. Those same hands lifted me, as a now young woman, up into his lap. They rocked and caressed my head as he whispered, “It’s ok, Sissy. It’s ok” Somehow on that day when reality became so overwhelming seeing his hand rest on my knee as we rocked and I sobbed gave me the resolve to know what he whispered to me was right. He had taught me to be strong enough to get through anything. Even this. Even this. Even now. Even looking down at those same meaty, freckled-fingers and round and battered nail beds, still so distinct but now folded so carefully, lying still and lifeless under pasty makeup. Makeup that someone had wrongly thought would bring more color, and thus more comfort to the on-lookers today. As I gaze at those hands, taking them in one last time, the realization settles in that those hands, my daddy’s hands, will never again hold my world together. I will now have to learn how to be the comfort to my family the way he and his hands had always been to me.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Jun 2013 15:03:47 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015