My Father's Hands

Ever since I was little, I always wished that I was more like my father.

When it comes to our family, we seem to be split down the middle: I look and am a lot like my mom, and my sister looks and is a lot like my father. As a kid, my sister Maddie had his blonde hair, his beautiful blue eyes, and, as it has been brought to my attention since my father passed away, his hands.

"You have your fathers hands" my grandparents often tell my sister during our get-together dinners. "The fingers, the soft pads of the fingertips, just like Doug's!" They beam smiles at my sister, and I look down at my plate, playing with my food with my fork, but really, it's just an excuse to look at my hands.

Why am I so envious of my sister? I'm sure there are plenty of other traits that siblings can be jealous of, but why hands?

I remember his hands. I remember holding his hand as we crossed the street when I was a kid. I remember grasping onto them, giggling, as he sunk underwater at the pool so I could clamber up and stand on his shoulders, then dive off, the "human diving board". Being the kid of an orthodonist (who do you know who has braces put on them by their dad?) I have memories of him working on my teeth, always with a gentle touch, skilled hands, even the parts that would usually be hard to get through, like tightening wires, or securing an expander, his voice reassuring me when I looked nervous that it wouldn't hurt, his pale eyes sparkling with a smile behind his mask, and those nimble, soft-padded fingertips orchestrating a perfect smile, those parts were a breeze, I trusted my father's skilled hands with my smile and well-being. They did not only give me a beautiful smile, but they worked hard so that my sister and I were well cared for, and lived wonderful, blessed lives. I missed holding those hands, I missed them cupped around the side of my face, looking at him, and seeing his eyes full of love and pride for his little girl. I miss him.

I don't remember what day it was, or what year, though I do think it was in the car, riding with my mother to get from one place to another. We were talking about my jewelry business, and she said "Mallory, I'm proud of you, you are so creative and talented, and I know your dad would be proud too. You know, you have skilled hands like your dad, he would laugh to know that you were good at working with wire, the only difference is you use it to make jewelry!"

I laughed, and I felt a swelling, rapid warmth of joy and pride, I was my father's daughter. I may not use my hands in all the ways he did, but we are the same in that our hands are both giving to those we love and to others, helping to those in need, and providing: as he provided for me, I can in turn provide for my children, all because he gave me life, and a blessed one at that.

I love you, Dad