My Hands Are Old
"God" my hands are old and I never said that out loud before. But, they are. I was so proud of them once, they were strong and hard and they did my bidding. Now they are rough and wrinkled like dry leaves. They lay here on my lap as naked reminders of the rest of my wrinkled body, which has served me so well. I sit and wonder how long has it been since someone has touched me, how long can a spirit survive without love or hope. But only to embrace loneliness again. I remember how my mother used to hold me "God". When I was hurt in spirit and in flesh she would gather me up, she would stroke my head and caress my back with her warm hands. "Oh God" where am I now, I remember my two kids as they grew up as children so did our love. And they did not care if there dad looked a little older. That did not matter to them. They were always there with their hug and a kiss. We have always tried to raise our children to be silly and affectionate as well as dignified and proper. "You see they do their duty," they come and visit and chat and reminisce but they do not touch me. They call me dad and then go about their own lives leaving me with my own sense of loneliness and half filled hopes of family. For what is family without the being they called dad? A word must transcend the very consciousness and essence of time. And time for this dad grows short.