These hands bear a story.
Once they belonged to a boy who used them to climb, throw and play his way through the tiny, cobblestoned streets of war-torn Europe. Before too many years passed these hands fought in a different war, in a different land against a relentless enemy. Having survived those terrible hours, they eventually held the rail of a ship that made its way toward the New World and the promise of opportunity. It wasn’t long before these hands, in sickness and in health, clasped another’s–a tiny wisp of a girl from Eastern Canada. These were the hands that gave their only son his first bath and over the years held his hand and gave him comfort whenever needed. Never once were they raised in anger; they protected. They toiled at a thankless job for decades; at times they toiled at two jobs to make ends meet. They did these things because that’s what you do for family. Eventually they hugged a newly married son and daughter-in-law. For hours on end these hands helped carry and bounce a colicky baby about the house, they even clumsily began changing diapers again. Now they play endless games with two exhaustingly adoring grandchildren. These hands have done much over the years; they are roughened by honest work and a hard life but are somehow gentler than ever.
These hands bear a story–Dad’s story.