Holding His Hand

Holding His Hand

The last days of my father are upon us

Closing in like clouds from the east

As ominous as they are imminent

The stark line of the storm front

Signals the coming fate.

 

But it’s not all dark and dismal quite yet

There are still his snide remarks

Strikingly sarcastic signs of life.

They speak of a certain quality

Pulsating below the surface.

Not a strong pulse, mind you, but it’s there.

 

Conversations in his little retirement apartment

Tend to vacillate, oscillating back and forth

So quickly my dad can’t always keep up.

I’ll notice out of the corner of my eye

His blank stare out the window

And move quickly to the chair

Positioned next to his left side.

 

He’s reclined back in his lazy boy

Covers tugged up to his collarbone,

body getting chillier by the day.

His left hand lies flat on the elbow rest

Out from under his blankets,

Thin skin baring his bony hand

braving the harsh room temp of 75 °F.

 

Holding a dad’s hand isn’t instinctual

As a grown 46 year-old son,

I’ve never done it voluntarily 

Outside of saying grace for a family meal

But nothing is really normal when your father’s dying

Instincts fire differently at death’s door,

So imagine my surprise when I see my arm 

lifting my right hand toward his quiescent wrist, 

alighting softly atop his left hand.

 

The strong and able hand I once knew

Is almost brittle now.

The same fingers that once

Threw a baseball in pitch and catch

Or held a chainsaw with a sawyer’s grip

Now lies still and cool

Struggling for circulation

Weakened and withered.

 

The hand that had disciplined me in my youth

Chastening me in tough love

Grabbing my floppy ear on occasion

To guide me in the path of righteousness

When my rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft.

 

The hand that had held me fast

Around my stir-crazy chest

While I sat perched atop his lean lap

As he read me stories about Gideon and Joshua

Turning the pages with licked fingertips

Soft and sure, certain.

 

The hand that had tucked me in many a night

Raking fingers through my disheveled hair

Laying his palm on my shoulder

As he prayed over me at bedtime

His voice calling to the heavens

Though I knew not quite how as a lad.

Who was he talking to so assuredly, so personally?

 

The hand that worked tirelessly to provide

Getting second and third jobs

Summer work, graveyard shifts

Just to put food on the table

Keeping the lights on for us 

And the pressure off of us.

(Who knows what burdens he slept with at night?)

 

The hand that held my mom’s 

On long trips in the family van

Wordlessly letting our family know

That we were sheltered under a banner of love.

I don’t know the feeling of wondering

If my mom and dad were going to make it.

That hand stayed clasped for dear life.

 

This same hand, now aged and chapped,

Laid ever so motionless on the armrest

My hand holding his with a progeny-pride

It’s done it’s time

There’s nothing left to prove.

Everything’s been left on the field.

His hand has touched us all,

Fingerprints everywhere you look.

 

I held that hand in honor last week

Ever so mindful of the handbreadth

Of its history and legacy.

That old farmhand, my father’s hand.

 

It holds a birthright and a blessing, both

Soon to be handed down to me.

Lord, give me the strength to hold on.