pa's hands

Father's Day around our house is about my husband and the Dad he is to my kids.  He's an incredible dad.  He stepped up to the plate when our daughter was born and has been playing his heart out ever since.  Sometimes I get a little jealous because I think maybe he's grown more as a dad than I have as a mom, although I know he doesn't think so.  I am often surprised and impressed at his "daddy" abilities.  He accomplishes things that I can't get done as a mom.  When I walk away frustrated, he steps in calmly and handles the matter without smoke coming out of his ears.

I will admit, however, that I do feel a bit gypped on Father's Day.  I can remember my Dad, his legacy, and how awesome our relationship was.  But I don't get to tell him anymore.  In a selfish way, that kind of sucks. 

 

I was thinking of this poem that I wrote a couple of years back about my Dad.  It's supposed to be song lyrics, but I haven't yet found the melody.  Or maybe I'm not ready to put it to music.  As I reread it, I didn't read/remember too deeply for fear the inevitable tears would come. 

PA'S HANDS

He went 64 to 85

In just 9 months

His hair turned white, he walked real slow

We kinda had a hunch...

He wasn't at that ripe old age

We hoped we'd see

But he was as much a husband and a dad

That he could be

But through it all

There was one thing that never changed

His big ol' hands, the most wonderful hands

They stayed the same

As a little girl I always liked to hold

My Daddy's hand

Even at 28 I was proud to hold

The hand of that man

When my Pa died, he was an old man

On the outside

But up in heaven receiving his crown

Now he was the child

Now he holds the hand

Of his loving heavenly Father

While I've been given the hands to hold

Of a son and daughter

Sometimes I dream that he's still here

Just as he was

Every now and again I see bits of him

In what my son does

Now he holds the hand

Of his loving heavenly Father

I hope my children can see glimpses of him

In his daughter

 

KC