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At dVerse Frank is hosting the Haibun with an invitation to write about memory.

dVerse Poets – Haibun – Memory

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

“My father took my hand and said, ‘Let’s go.'” Stephen Joseph Mitskavich

My Father’s Hands

My father’s hands are always with me. they were sometimes dark and sinister when riled, indifferent when preoccupied, and tender in my best memory. His hands were strong, at times too strong, a miner’s hands all dented and calloused, a boxer’s hands like steel, a gardeners hands covered in dirt. His hands were too big for fine work, instead he dug the yard, a quarter acre, all fruit and veg. He once lifted the back end of his ford while I changed the flat, I couldn’t argue with that.

My fondest memory lingers, a holiday at the seaside, a bucket and spade and sand castles. Walking in the water, walking home, my bucket in one hand, my other in his hand, the sun at our backs, adventure ahead. No matter the times of fear which came later, then he made the world right, the waves and paths, the people, all was well, we marched together and took the world. I can still feel those hands.

My father’s big hands

sometimes tender, mostly work

he was winter and sun.

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