My Father’s Hands
The weathered crevices of your hands remind me of winter, the loads of firewood carted to the porch, stacked neatly in a row as high as my bangs, bits of bark escape to become mulch for the tulip bed. Your chore seems never ending as temperatures drop below freezing, and we migrate indoors out of reach from the northerly, grateful for the welcome of Mama’s kitchen. The crackling hearth speaks to us in a language reserved for those seeking solitude, a winter rhythm, so familial, so primitive in its calling. Your hands tend the flames absorbing their heat, their tendrils of warmth penetrating, now branding the years upon your callused knuckles.	Rarely gloved, your hands loom raw and safe upon the dinner table, awaiting cornbread and milk, our Friday night fare. Their coarseness and size a gentle reminder of the day’s work, the fences mended, bergs of ice broken for thirsty cattle, troughs filled, hay spread, all chapped mementos, casualties of a rancher. That widening patch of brown just above your thumb, wasn’t there yesterday, was it? A pigmentation of youth? A reminder of unspoken scars? Regrets never mentioned? Or, more certainly, a badge of courage against the odds of aging, a graceful resignation, proof of your existence.	As an adult I know what I knew as a child, that when March arrives, those same hands will make haste, inviting the springtime rituals; preparing for new calves, seasoning the salt boxes, revving up the garden tiller. As you uproot last year’s earth I watch your hands planting the potatoes, eyes up, you remind me, so their roots seek anchorage in your fertile soil, their faces upturned aimed at the sun’s zenith just inches beyond their grasp. © 1998 Lynda Wilson Jones published in the 25th Anniversary Edition of Pilgrimage, Reflections on the Human Journey, Volume 27 2001/2002