Gentle Hands, Calloused Hands

Dawdling outside the house tightly clutching the brown paper bag Full of penny candy my father had purchased for me with a quarter I heard mother calling Supper always spoiled my sweet delights, but I didn’t mind Homemade biscuits with jam ever ready to take their place The first time I ever noticed dads hands was at the kitchen table Strong enough to work a garden, build our modest home, Yet gentle enough to pat my back when I excelled When there were no jobs in our Louisiana home state daddy would take our family of six and find work elsewhere Texas, California and Colorado...state of my birth I watched my dad’s hands as he cleaned the fish from our weekend excursions camping on the river; boat tied to one of the Cyprus knees Hands that were never still...always busy They picked me up when I was hurt, I felt their strength Hands that guided me...gentle hands...calloused hands Daddy never considered his way perfect, but fair Never worked to gain great riches, but always made sure we had everything we needed Today is his seventy-ninth birthday, he always says he doesn’t need anything My siblings and I will be taking him out to eat tonight I will notice his hands once again, now calloused and noticeably wrinkled with age, We’ll cherish our time together