THE HANDS
A Son, A Husband, A Father, A Warrior

Blue eyes are tightly closed
Lips are relaxed and parted
Life’s breath no longer passes his nose
Yet with vestiges of age
No wrinkles crease his face

Empty sheets lay limply
Where long legs should be now
Casualties of ancient war
Freedom’s supreme sacrifice
That hastened his journey


My blurred gaze falls to hands
Now crossed upon his chest
Browned from the Florida sun
Muscular from years of use
It takes me back in time


Those hands that cuddled me
Scant moments from the womb
Then led me down life’s pathways
Chastising when I was wrong
Clapping when I excelled

His strong hands ever there
Nurturing, supporting
Lifted me when I went down
And held me as he told me
“Always act like a man.”

The wonderful strong hands
Could make things from wood
Fix a bike, repair the house
Showed me how to throw a ball
And swim and fix a car

Hands full of tenderness
Held my mother’s with love
As their adoring gazes
Were filled as their strapping sons
Matured from guiding hands
Fantastic hands that once gripped
His fighter plane’s joystick
Guiding it in loops and spirals,
Nosebleed climbs—ear-popping dives
Fighting the Japanese

Hands fought this enemy
Who tried to take his life
Then guided a wounded body
And a crippled airplane home
To crash on friendly soil

Now hands so familiar
Lie at rest quietly
On the sheet over his chest
A lump grows large in my throat
Time has its damming way

Destiny comes to call
My head bowed, thoughts rambled
My eyes now stare at my lap
And I see hands, my own hands
My dad’s Immortal hands

H. Steven Robertson
August 6, 2007