My Father’s Hand

Posted on Mar 11, 2014

I miss my father’s hand.

My first recollection of the feel of it was strolling through the park, looking at the model sailboats on the pond, sharing italian ices, then finding Alice in Wonderland.

His immense hand dwarfed mine.  His nails were short and clean, and its skin was vaguely rough, closer to smooth, but not.  He loved to pick up tiny things for his models, but his fingers weren’t made for it, so he’d resort to tweezers. No, his hand was made to hold mine within it, to be my protector, my comfort.

I’m not sure when, if ever, I was safer than when I was hand in hand with my father.

Then I thought he could take anyone.

He was frightening at times, but that came in handy walking through the park.  I could stare into the eyes of anything when I was an extension of him.

An extension of him and safe.

And time has passed, and our hands have grown farther apart.
Some might say, now, never to be felt again.

And I know that is not true.

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