Hands

What is life, …Dad?

Life…is made up
of all the hands that we hold.
Those we touch
from when we’re one second of a day old.
till the instant dark creeps in through our eyes
and turns our dreams cold.

what does that mean?
Smiling!

There are
ones we hold…for eternity,
albeit loosely,
while others
I cling to, for the life of me.
Most we grasp
to learn from them what we can.
Then there are hands
that we hold on to so tightly
the nail beds in our fingers turn white.
The toxicity
that prevents us from being our own light.
“Let go!”
A voice screamed from the shadows!

The hand that falls silent
and out of breath. And, in their last whisper
encouraging to be self reliant.

The hand that balls our first fist
in outlandish defiance.
Our ignorance
quelled in the cupped hands
of our elders.
Like the Sage of a tree,
a grandfather’s
voice is heard
through his finger T.I. P.

That first hand we met
and fell in love with.
Full of juvenile intentions.
The feeling inside
only our hand could describe it.

What fun most are,
while others we hold for tears.
And some,
we know how they feel
though having not felt theirs for years.

The father’s hand
that made us feel safe.
His fingers intertwined with mine, reminding us, that we are brave.

The hand
that holds us up straight,
the father figures, the role models the ones never letting us stray.
The hand that grabs hold of mine, while speaking the words,
“Now let us pray.”

 let me show you how Day
can dawn in your eyes by looking above.
The song that love
plays through the hands
of our loved ones.
The soft clench of trust.
The spools of smiles unwind widening our love.
Now! that’s clutch.

But,
it’s the edge…of finality,
when a new beginning speaks,
to the end of my time.
I want your hand in mine.
Not heavy, just light.
Let me see you through your eyes
Let our hands touch one last time.
And without a sigh,
with a final smile,
in my very last breath,
I will say
I gave you my very best.