| Her Father's Hands By Rich Reith A hush fills the darkened room. In the bookcase against the wall he can almost see the books in the soft reflected light of the desk lamp. In the serenity of the room and the peace in his heart he studies his hands under the light. His hands.. The hands of a father. Strong hands, Loving hands. A Daddy's hands... He remembers her tiny fingers wrapped around his pinkie. Even then he was both refuge and strength to her. Even then. He remembers Her hand in his Walking down a gravel road Sneaking into the wheat field together, laughing, walking down the road again, hand in hand . wheat stalks sticking out of their mouths. She made him perceive the world differently then. He saw bugs and bees and butterflies Rocks that looked like frogs Clouds that looked like puppy dogs. Saw the world through a child's eyes. He remembers his hands over hers on the bat teaching her to hit a softball. Her wanting to learn. His hands needing to teach. He remembers His hands on hers comforting her through her latest heartbreak, holding books as he read her to sleep at night, soft when she was hurt, strong when she needed lifting up, folded silently in prayer when she needed help greater than his. And he remembers Today Today his hand was on top of hers Her hand holding his arm as they walked together one more time. His hands, always so strong, almost too weak to lift her veil. He remembers his hands taking hers and giving them to another man. He remembers the pride, the joy, bittersweet as his hands started her down a new path into eternity. Staring at his hands in the soft light he smiled. His job was done. His hands would always be there for her But another man and God would escort her now. Almost as good as the love in her father's hands. Copyright © June 2003 by Rich Reith. All rights reserved |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| Clickto hear reading of the poem. |
| Please Sign our Guest book |