Daddy's Hands
Rating: K - should be safe for most everyone age 10+.
An introduction - There is a country song called Daddy's Hands sung by Holly Dunn. This song has been in my head the last few days and I knew that I needed to write out the story that's been coming together in my head. The story is written from Don's POV and I hope it touches you as much as it has me. I am also probably going to write the story from Charlie's POV eventually.
Disclaimer – This applies toward all chapters of this story. These characters are not mine. Also, the song Daddy's Hands is not mine either, it's just a song that touches my heart. The lyrics to the song are posted one verse at a time per chapter and I have posted the entire song at the end of the last chapter for those of you that want all the lyrics to the song.
Chapter 1 - Calluses
I remember Daddy´s hands, folded silently in prayer.
And reaching out to hold me, when I had a nightmare.
You could read quite a story, in the calluses and lines.
Years of work and worry had left their mark behind.
My father's hands have always seemed so strong. They would hold me up high so I could touch the ceiling, catch me when he told me to jump and hold me tight when I needed his strength.
At dinner he would hold my hand in his right and my brother's in his left and with my mom would complete the circle that was our family. Even though we were not a religious family, he had always led us in the family prayers at dinner and provided that comforting presence that was Love. His hands comforted me.
I remember sitting on his lap and studying his hand. The strength of his hand in mine made me feel safe and secure. The feel of the veins standing out on the back of his hand seemed to feel like a rope binding me to him. The softness of his hand felt comforting and the feel of the muscles beneath the skin told me that he would always be there for me. His hands gave me security.
I remember studying the calluses and cuts on his hands from the hours of yard work and the endless jobs that Mom found for him to do around the house. The swing of the hammer as we repaired the roof, the grasp on the handle of the rake as he raked up all the leaves from the huge oak tree in front of the house and the kindness they displayed while helping our neighbor next door when her husband lay in the hospital after having a heart attack. His hands taught me to care for others.
I watched my Dad as he gently held my mother's fragile hand as she lay dying and I knew that he gave her strength as only he could – he held her hand and gently rubbed his thumb over her tender skin, while he spoke encouraging words to her and told her he was there for her and to do what she needed to do.