Bedtime came, we were settling
down,
I was holding one of my lads.
As I grasped him so tight, I saw
a strange sight:
My hands. . .they looked like my
dad's!
I remember them well, those old
gnarled hooks,
there was always a cracked nail
or two.
And thanks to a hammer that
strayed from its mark,
his thumb was a beautiful blue!
They were rough, I remember,
incredibly tough,
as strong as a carpenter's vice.
But holding a scared little boy
at night,
they seemed to me awfully nice!
The sight of those hands - how
impressive it was
in the eyes of his little boy.
Other dads' hands were cleaner,
it seemed
(the effects of their office
employ).
I gave little thought in my
formative years
of the reason for Dad's raspy
mitts:
The love in the toil, the dirt
and the oil,
rusty plumbing that gave those
hands fits!
Thinking back, misty-eyed, and
thinking ahead,
when one day my time is done.
The torch of love in my own
wrinkled hands
will pass on to the hands of my
son.
I don't mind the bruises, the
scars here and there
or the hammer that just seemed
to slip.
I want most of all when my son
takes my hand,
to feel that love lies in the
grip.
By David Kettler
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