Hands

Your hands were probably shaking the first time they held me. Your hands so large and calloused, and I was merely a seven pound-two ounce baby. My whole hand could wrap around just one of your fingers. You were probably scared you would drop me, or that I would somehow break. Although scared, you beamed with pride. This was the life that you'd helped create. I was the daughter that you'd prayed for and wanted.

A few years later, you held my hand as you and mom walked me into kindergarten. You probably asked yourself, "How could five years have passed so quickly?" You were having to trust someone else to care for me from 8 to 3, and that was probably one of the hardest things you'd had to do up until that point.

Your hands were there to hold me as I was learning to swim, and was scared of going under the water. Your hands were there to push me as I was learning how to ride a bike for the first time. Your hands were on the dashboard as you were stomping the imaginary brake as you rode shotgun as I was learning to drive, and you were trying not to yell…too much.

I remember your hand patting me on the back, after I'd gotten my High School diploma, a silent message of "I love you and am so proud of you." The same was true, the day I received my Bachelor's diploma in the mail.

My hands were shaking as they were holding yours in your last days. Repeating "I love you" and "It's okay" as if it were my mantra. No words spoken could have ever encompassed all that I needed them to.  How grateful I was to have you as my father, how grateful I was to have shared all of those memories with you. No amount of wishing could stop time those last few days.   And no amount of time would have ever been long enough.  I stood, holding your hand, wishing away the inevitable. Now, oh how I long to hold your hand once more.