We just got home from Washington D.C. We went for the Silver Docs film festival in Maryland and Milt went to lots of movies and I wandered the city and played with beads. It is good to be home again–always.
This morning I was searching the web for some information on another person who is doing video letters from prisoners to their children at home–very cool. Anyway, I came across a blog called “Writing the Line Between Heaven and Earth” and I recognized that as one of my own titles. I stopped and clicked onto the blog and it WAS one of my own titles. I had completely forgotten that I tried to start a blog almost exactly a year ago (the only post on there was July 17). It made me wonder how many other remnants of myself are floating around out there in cyber space. It is like outer space where all these tests and trials have been jettisoned into space and never brought home so they just . . . float.
Who cleans up the web? A question.
I am sitting at my kitchen table and the smell of the white peonies I cut yesterday is almost overwhelming. I shook the ants off and put them in a blue vase for my mom and dad. Peonies were the flowers they had at their wedding. In my family, June 18th is a significant date: the date my parents married, the date they had their first child, and the date which marked my father’s death. In the year that he died, it was also Father’s Day and he died with all eight of his children and our mother in a circle around him. I think just in his honors that I will post a small piece I did called “My Father’s Hands”.
My Father’s Hands
In last night’s dream my father gave me a tiny bag with trails of heart-shaped beads wandering the pale cloth. Something in my soul wants to finger the tiny heart-shaped beads wondering what he meant by this gift. Did he mean follow this little trail, my darling girl, and you shall carry anything that comes after with ease.
So many books are about mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, but what of the daughter caught by a golden thread to her father’s soul? What of that child?
I am a grown woman, a grandmother now, who looks down at her own stubby fingers one day and sees her father’s hands. They are not the hands of a piano player or a dancer but the sturdy hands of labor, of getting things done, of endurance and strength. I remember his hands in one scene and then another; tying myskates in winter, sketching the walls of his new house or solving an intricate problem on paper as if each knubby fingertip had its very own brain and only when his hands moved could he think.
I remember the warmth and strength of his hands as he kneaded the calves of my legs late in the night when growing pains hurt bad enough to wake me up crying. I see his hands holding cards in a favorite game of whist or bridge or gently patting the shoulder of a friend he met on the street. I see his two hands on a steering wheel driving to grandma’s house or holding the very edges of the Sunday paper after church, a plate of powdered donuts hidden on the other side of the news. I smile and remember the way my father’s hands would pick up myneedlepoint project and run the yarn through six rows, tugging just a little too tightly so that Icould always see in the tapestry of the finished work his rows beside my own.
I see his hands holding the Louis La’Mour book late in the evening, letting go only to take a sip of the beer warming on the side table; his hands building two houses to shelter those he loved most, his hands fashioning the ugliest boat ever out of wood and plank, his hands turning wood, twisting metal, picking berries and then building a special screen to roll the berries down gently to clean them.
I see his hands playfully slapping my mother’s backside or holding her against the fridge to steal a kiss, and his hands wielding the razor that plowed a smooth path through his lathered chin and me, sitting on the closed lid of the pot, waiting for the moment when he would turn and growl and try to kiss my cheek like a rabid dog. I would squeal and run out of the bathroom giggling.
All of this I see in an instant when I looked down and saw my own small, square hands, so sturdy and strong.
And she see his hands, swollen and bruised, a blueberry stain on the back where the IV had kept him alive for three more minutes, five more minutes, and then that last and final breath, of death. And he was gone, living on in the short fingers of my own hands that crack in the winter . . . just like his did.
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