Do you remember your father’s hands?

How gentle they would caress and massage,

Though he may have been tired from work,

Though he wanted to relax in his big easy chair,

You would still place your head on his lap.

His touch was unlike your mother’s,

Her hands were soft and hard,

She was with you all day and you knew her touch well,

His hands were unfamiliar simply because he was away all day,

But there was no less love in his touch,

Indeed there seemed to be more,

With your head on his lap,

And his hand on your back,

His stroke was akin to that of petting a cat,

Though you did not see his eyes,

You could feel his love pour out with every stroke,

Though he was tired, 

That time was peaceful.

His hands were rough and rugged,

But no less soft.

His work allowed for such peace to be remembered.