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My Father’s Hand!

My father left me when I was a baby
and all that remained of him… was his hand! 
The hand that edged its way
into the last photo he took of me!
As I grew, I used to study that hand
searching, rooting for details of personality; 
a reflection upon my possible characteristics.
Did I see a loving hand, skinned in kindness
or a selfish one, boned and heartless?
So I aged, feeling different, aware of scarring.
Occasionally, I tried to break free from solitude
but my partner kept whispering me back
until I would try to cry 
but not understanding the steps. 
I was poor on love; overfed on loneliness
but sensing the tremors of isolation in others.

Thirty years later and a father’s day email!
Then gradually, slow as molasses,
I unlocked, I opened my front door, 
tentatively, anxiously allowing him into my life. 
Eventually a pleasure, a confidence, a warmth,
began to seep, to trickle into my soul.
The abandoned child had been found
and the next part of my life could begin.
I discovered a father, one who wanted forgiveness,
and, at last, I could part company with
the stings of rejection, the stabs of loneliness
which had serrated away at my life.

I could now think about all those memories
that I used to share with myself,
hoping that now I had rediscovered someone
I could apportion, ration them with.
I yearned for a father who would listen, 
who would share…..
and in time, he did
and in time, I learnt to forgive.

Ian Souter

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