On Father’s Day
My Daddy’s hands — they hammered nails into boards that magically became a sail boat, a tree house, a pier.
My Daddy’s hands cleaned and trimmed my tiny fingernails on Sunday mornings while Momma was getting ready for church.
My Daddy’s hands popped my backside when I had sassed a grown-up or broken a rule, but they would always wipe away my tears as he assured me it would be okay.
My Daddy’s hands measured butter, sugar, flour, and vanilla for North Carolina State Fair blue ribbon-winning pound cakes.
My Daddy’s hands sent me notes, carefully crafted in cursive, about life lessons, and recipes for shrimp dishes, and silly jokes, that are tucked into special places around my house.
My Daddy’s hands clasped mine to his chest Thursday morning as we spoke of Momma and their beautiful family. My own hands wiped away his tears as I told him, “It will be okay.”
Ellen Fishburne Triplett
June 19, 2016