Father

Those hands were strong and muscular, 
With a golden tan and the veins etched out. 
With palms wider than my waist 
Which held me close to his face 
As I buried my head in his shoulders. 
I remember the surge of strength 
When they delicately held mine. 

They locked me in embrace. 
They cut and filed my tiny nails. 
Tied my shoelaces and even mended my shoes. 
Lugged my satchel and tinkered my bicycle. 
They deftly bound my books and notebooks; 
Turned cardboard into doll-houses; 
Held out colorful boxes of firecrackers; 
Soothed my feverish forehead; 
And walked me across roads. 
They beckoned me outstretched, 
When I sulked over meaningless things, 
They wielded heavy bags while I ambled by his side. 
Into them, I slid my petty shopping lists 
Of candies, sketch-pens and cellophane. 
They tautly held onto the handles of the scooter 
As we rode to my school and markets. 
And each day, we kept riding 
Through my childhood, through his youth. 

I hold those same hands now 
Protectively while crossing roads. 
I grab them before we step on the escalator. 
And as they melt and submit to my grip, 
As I feel them palpitate within my palms, 
I clutch them even harder 
Hoping to pass on in my touch
A little bit of their former strength. 

(This poem first appeared in the book Po'try)