My Father's Touch

I wrote this after a time of deep sharing in my men's group the other night.
It means a lot to me.
After first publishing the poem, I made a video.

I hope you find something in it that you are looking for.

MY FATHER'S TOUCH

We are all emotional beings.

Our stories are as different as the wind.

We share an armful of common traits and needs that make us human.

Uniquely and gloriously human.

We have the need to connect.

To reach out,

To communicate.

From our first breath to our last we strive to make sense of the notion:

‘We are not alone’.

We have senses.

We have the gift of touch.

I often recall the memories of my childhood,

not clearly hearing the words spoken to me – they fade,

but more so, how I felt.

I remember my father when I was small

and how enormous he was to me.

The man with whom I belonged.

I knew this then.

I remember him scooping me up in his arms,
his laugh, his playfulness.

I remember the eagerness of waiting for him

to come home each day.

For him to walk through the door.

Him seeing me there and scruffing my hair as he went inside to change.

The impatient wait for him to emerge and, as his first priority,

take me out to the back yard to play.

To run, to be chased.

To be swung in the air and caught.

Never feeling fear.

Grasping the exhilaration of each powerful throw.

Telling him to go higher.

The catch.

The landing

And off for another game until we were called inside to eat.

Even then I knew that HE was the one who was sad to come in.

These were the moments of escape and freedom.

They were fun and rugged and reckless times.

But the dinner needed to be done.

The cleaning up and the baths.

And then some time to rest and pause.

To crawl up on his belly and read the paper together.

The letters for me were not yet learnt.

But I was content to just lie there,

looking at the unfamiliar words I would one day know.

Rising slightly

up and down to his rhythmic breathing

and dodging the pages as they were turned.

The hair on his chest brushing the back of my neck.

A cuddle always ensued, a kiss good night.

And then it was off to bed.

I remember that was a warm place.

A safe place.

I remember his smell.

His strength and his care.

And of all my sweetest and deepest childhood memories,

I most of all remember his hands.

Hands so big, they wrapped around my childish fingers and palms.

Holding me firm.

Protecting me.

Guiding me forward.

We would walk, he and I.

He would take my hand and we would go together.

Anywhere.

Just walking.

He would talk to me.

Tell me stories.

Ask me questions.

Teach me things.

We would stop and just look at the clouds.

I was safe there with him.

Holding his hand.

They were rough hands.

A man’s hands compared to my childish skin.

They protected me.

And I knew it.

No doubts.

My father’s hands.

My father’s touch.

I remember.

So now I am older.
Much older than he was when I was a child.

He is old now too.

So old.

When we see each other, we will kiss and hug and smile.

We will talk to each other in low voices so no one else can hear.

His voice is now subdued.

He holds my hand as we speak.

But his once strong grip

Now possesses the weakness of aging.

These hands of his are now softer and lighter and twisted with frailty.

My own grown hands now cover his.

They reach out to him in his declining years.

They steady him as we walk together.

His wrinkled fingers move,

Ever so slightly with ensuing palsy.

I lift him up and help him into his chair.

His eyes are old now, his face less familiar to me.

This man who was once my father.

Who is still my father.

Who is old.

So old.

I stare at him as he rests.
To notice every detail of him and keep everything in my mind.

So I will never forget.

Never forget him.

His body now is so frail.

He is slowly disappearing.

When he takes my hand, I feel almost nothing.

This man.

My father.

I turn to wave goodbye.

His eyes fill with tears and his body is slow.

I turn and go.

The man I once knew is gone.

The man I still love is slowly going.

And I realize,

With joy and with sadness combined,

the small boy within me rising with emotion.

The boy who longs to be swung so high again,

Just one more time.

Just once more.

And I feel,

with a heart that is weary with so much aching:

how already....
 

I miss my father’s touch.