In My Father's Hands
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This was a ritual my mothere shared with me about her father. She was the third of eight children. She recalled watching this coal miner, cabinet maker father laying her younger siblings faceup and flat in his lap, their toes against his belly as he gently rubbed their heads with his well scrubbed and talented hands and talked to them. She told me that one of her most treasured memories was watching him as he sat for hours on end in his golden years, gently shapping her daughter's (that would be me) infant head.
A piece of waiting clay adapts
To a sculptor's finite stroke,
Infants heads were shaped by hands
Of older thinking folk.
Eight times a molder in his chair,
A newborn child held near.
Tiny heads-so softly stroked,
By my father's hands so dear.
A memory like yesterday,
Though sixty years are gone,
That day I'd chose to run away,
It was a moment close to dawn.
A family rule, child broken,
My world seemed too much to bear,
Harsh words had all been spoken,
I knew they didn't care.
I tip-toed through the shadows,
Past the parlor -to the right,
As the sleeping house lay quiet,
In the indecisive light.
My footstep touched the porch
As the door behind me closed
And I shivered as I stood there,
With a bag that held my clothes.
A new day's light was yawning,
In the distance by the hill,
And somewhere in the darkness,
The crickets all -went still.
There was no magic out there,
And doubt began to creep,
Perhaps I'd been too hasty.
My threat seemed hard to keep.
The smell of the morning's dawning,
And the coolness on my cheeks,
Beckoned me to sadness,
It was then I heard him speak.
Half hid in the shadows behind me,
On the old porch swing he sat,
Patting is hand beside him,
I moved to where he was at.
"I guess you really meant it,
So you're really running away?"
And hiding my tears, I nodded,
There seemed nothing else to say.
"Well, come sit down beside me,
For a moment before you leave,
A thought or two I'll share with you,
I hope you'll hear and believe."
"You're not going to stop me?"
I asked in a half-hushed plea,
He shook his head and smiled a bit,
As I sat there at his knee.
He did not reach to touch me,
Or treat me as wicked or wild,
But sat there wisely waiting,
For the calm in the heart of his child.
"You know," he said after a moment,
"We'd really miss you here.
You're very important to us,
We both love having you near."
"We know you're a bit headstrong,
You've really made up your mind,
To leave your Mom and me because,
You think that we're unkind."
"But if you do something on purpose,
And deliberately break a rule,
You head in the wrong direction,
That's a path that is trot by a fool."
"If you were a stranger, we'd stand by,
And know we couldn't say a thing,
But, because we are your parents,
Rules are the love we must bring."
He sat back and his sigh was so quiet,
It was almost a sound unheard,
And off in the distance that morning,
We heard that first chirp of a bird.
The sun was giving its warning,
As our rooster burst into song.
The dawn was dispersing the shadows,
And chasing the night on along.
Yes, Daddy knew I'd be staying,
And he'd known it -yes- all along,
The rope that I needed was given,
But his hands held on -mightly -strong
As the night faded behind us
All my yesterdays here are reviewed,
One glance into memory's window,
And my love and respect are renewed.
My father, with his artisan honing,
Sculpted mind -head -and heart.
And the wisdom of that shaping,
Gave each child a sound loving start.
In his hands he fashioned his children.
Helping them to learn to be good.
He taught rules for them to live by,
And to always do right when they should.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2019
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