I lost my father in February and I've written a prose piece this
Father's Day in his memory.

Dad's Hands

I miss Dad.
I miss knowing he's there.
I miss the look of his hands.
Dad's hands were so capable. He used to put down one or two fingers so I
could hold on when I was small, and walk, or rather, run, next to him.
His hands fixed things from cars and home repair, to washing machines to
cooking bacon and egg dinners the few times Mom traveled.
Dad's hands learned computers as he got older. They used to fidget when
he'd sit in his chair in the evenings. Dad's hands opened the mail and
wrote the bills. Dad's hands pushed the lawn mower and shoveled the
snow. They dug rocks from the garden and took out the trash.
Dad's hands held the leash when he walked the dog at night. They spanked
me and brought me a glass of water when I'd been vomiting all day and
couldn't keep anything else down.
Dad's hands were the last love our dogs knew as he had to take them to
the vet to go home to dog heaven.
Dad's hands carried the pistol to defend our home on those very few
times he felt threatened.
Dad's hands wrote my checks for college and ordered Christmas presents
online.
Dad's hands were still the same ones when I held them in the days before
he died and they were my last touch of him before they closed him into
his eternal rest.
I miss Dad's hands. I'll always remember him...and Dad's hands.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Aequitas, in the year 552 AD.