My father's hands are popped and cracked like the canyons that he made his home.
Traveling from the cities of Chicago to the empty deserts of Arizona
His hands have seen it all.
They have held my mother in college.
When she was on the brink of crying and the outside was a black burr
They held her in comfort.
A shield from the panic of which she was safe.
The hands that slid a wedding ring on my mother's finger,
A promise of a love not broken,
And a future unclear to them,
But their love and determination were bright and promising.
All the long nights that those hands have spent working,
Tirelessly typing and calculating,
He knew it would be hard,
The challenges awaiting would not be simply achieved,
But he knew it would be worth it,
It was always worth it.
My father's hands have held me tight in the ways only he knows how
He has comforted me in my worst,
Awarded me in my best,
And brought hope into situations I never thought possible.
His wrinkled hands have built a pathway of which I am to walk.
As I write this he is still building, cutting forks in the path of which I will choose,
And there will be the day where he stops building.
That will be the day where I hold his hands of clay,
Shattered and brilliant,
And let go.
My own path will be mine to build,
And his burden will be lifted.
Finally, he could look back, and admire the garden of which he has built.
The garden cared for and loved,
Built with his wrinkled and popped hands.