My father’s hands are missing from my life.
My father’s hands did not hold mine, lift me when I fell, muss my hair or pretend to steal my nose, point the way or beckon me to follow. They did not comfort me when I cried, make shadow puppets to make me smile, or applaud any of my achievements.
My father’s hands never signed a card, “love, Dad.”
An elusive figure until his death in my teens, he would occasionally appear only to disappear again, teaching me to forever seek out others like him.
A lifetime is a long time to be angry at a shadow and so I forgive, accepting and understanding that one cannot give what one does not have.
And I allow myself to love him for the life I've been given.
Happy Father’s Day.