I watched those hands since I was born.
My father’s hands now weak and worn.
They held me up through all the years
They spanked my butt, they wiped my tears
His hands were dirty, his hands would bleed
But with those hands we’d never need
I saw the callous, I saw the grime
They never stopped in all that time
They opened jars, hit nails, turned screws
Sometimes he missed and earned a bruise
Those hands taught me to throw a ball
To cut a lawn, to paint a wall
That sometimes you need a gentle touch
But a firm handshake, meant so much
I noticed changes appear in his skin
Age spots showed up, his hands grew thin
When he asked for help, I started to see
He actually needed some help from me
The hands I remembered so strong and bold
Now depended on mine as his grew old
It makes me think of my own kids
And of all the years and things we did
Do they see my hands as I saw dad’s?
Will they remember the times that we had?
As I hold their kids I begin to see
The toll the years have taken on me
I see my hands, the scars I’ve earned
They’ve cut and bled, smashed and burned
I watched those hands since I was born.
My father’s hands now weak and worn.
But it’s not my father’s hands I see
The hands I see belong to me
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Comments2
Yes, we all get there sooner or later. The time when we realize life has changed and we are older.
Your poem was a very moving one, very sentimental. Its power comes from the passing of time as the writer grows older. A testament to your father's love. - Phil A.
Thank you Phil, he left us in January at 90 - we were blessed to have him that long!
now you have to become your fathers hands
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