A FATHER’S HANDS

[Originally published on Father’s Day, June 20, 2010.]

 

These are the hands that raised me. They are my father’s hands.

As a child, I would watch those fingers fly over the valves of his trumpet as his foot would tap out the metronomic beat. He would then sit down at the grand piano and those same fingers would coax beautiful music from hidden strings.

The hands are older now, spotted with age.  But they still make that same beautiful music, and it makes my heart sing with sweet memories.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Postscript: I wrote the above post on Father’s Day of 2010. It is especially noteworthy because it was the first - and only - time my (notoriously technology averse) father ever left a comment on one of my blog posts. Here’s it is:

Eli (hiz own self) said...

It is absolutely amazing but I recognized my own hands immediately! Thank you for the sweet thoughts. It’s good to be a Dad who is appreciated and loved. D.O.D.

For the curious, D.O.D. stands for Dear Old Dad, which is how Eli styled himself in the cards and letters he would send me. He’s gone now, but that beautiful music will always be in my memories.