by Marc Moss

My father's hands are big and strong and sure. They are confident. And fast. And they know. They know how to wipe away tears after a lost baseball game. They know how to apply Bactine and Mercurochrome before applying the Band-Aid. My father's hands know how to find the wrench on the ground behind his head while he lies under the old Fiat, changing the oil. My father's hands can fix anything.

My father's hands are patient as they throw the baseball over and over into my waiting baseball glove in the soft light of an Indian summer evening. My father's hands are patient as they fold the worms squirming on to the barbed hook, careful not to catch on the danger. My father's hands are patient as they untangle the fishing line in the dark on the dock after my brother abandoned his pole to make mud pies on the shore, and I hope I don’t catch anything while my father's busy hands are untying the failures of a little boy.

My father's hands are busy grabbing my shirt as I run from their power. My father's hands miss, for once, as I duck under their swing, and I wriggle free from their grasp, and run shirtless out of the house into the hot August sun. My father's hands bunch into fists tearing at my shirt.

My father's hands rest. Wrinkled on the table. He told me once, There will come a time when you can whoop yer old man.” And my father's hands, spotted with age and time, sit powerless and I know today is that day. Where my father's hands cannot tighten the handcuffs on a prisoner, pull another trigger, or even clench into fists tight enough to do anything but wipe away his own frustrated tears.

My father's hands. Swollen. Ring tight on his diabetic finger. My father's hands reaching out for help. My father's hands, shaking as they raise the gin to his lips and then sit quiet on his lap when he places the glass, triumphantly, without spilling it all, onto the waiting table.