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My Father's Hands

Annie McGlade 2018


I have my father’s hands

Square palms, strong fingers, straight thumbs

His hands

Hands that spent years tending and caring for the injured and frail

Hands that caressed the ivory keys of our piano and created the music of our childhood and embedded it in our bones

Hands that held us, played with us and supported us

Hands that wielded chisel, saw and plane

Hands that brought forth beauty from raw wood and captured time in a box

Hands strong and gentle

Expressive and warm

Calloused and soft


Now they are hands that are old and gnarled

Spotted and bruised

Yet still they create music

Still they care and caress

I have my father’s hands

They are in his image

But they are not his.

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