My Father's Hands

27th February 2013

The last time I was here at the Methodist Chapel in Honiotn was for my father’s Thanksgiving service. This afternoon he fills the room again on the faces of the people who have come to the ‘launch’ of the second volume of his autobiography. I have missed these faces - some of them remind me of him - of how it was to be in his presence -  in the presence of the very old -  holding their long and marvellous lives in the translucence of their skin.

My sister and I pose for a photo for the local paper handing over a copy of his book to the librarian. I stand next to the mayor who looks about fifteen. I make sure my hands are not too visible - the skin round my fingernails is cracked and stained, red and swollen from cooking, from being cold and being in and out of water. I notice the age marks on the backs of my hands now, like a speckled trout. Like my father’s hands.

I wrote inside the front cover of some of his books when people bought them - signed our names. But it didn’t feel right. I wish he’d been there to do it himself. And hear the love in the voices of the people who miss him.

Not going to blog for a while now as I’m going to be spending time with my nieces and my father’s great granddaughter who is only four months old..... finding out how to be in the unblemished presence of the very young......