I have my Dad's hands.
He had brown hands. Calloused hands.
Olive colored skin that darkened with just a little sun.
So do I.
My knuckles are creased like his were.
My fingernails are rounded like his were.
My hands can carve, paint, and create like his did.
He carved animals from wood. He spread paint into pictures. He created shape with his pencils.
I carve sense from emotion. I spread thoughts from nonsense. I create questions with words.
His hands built (a playhouse for me when I was five).
His hands wrote (sermons in strangely beautiful handwriting).
His hands shook (when he didn't eat lunch or if he got nervous).
His hands preached (sermons about scars and about shoes).
His hands drove (a little too fast, and he got a few tickets).
His hands waved (at me when he dropped me off at school).
His hands pointed (out different types of trees, birds, and fossils).
His hands cooked (the best fried potatoes).
His hands wiped (away tears when he heard "You Raise Me Up").
His hands helped (everyone he could).
Now his hands are still.
But
His hands hold (his Creator's).
