My Dad and I My dad and I-we think alike, He knows just what I mean Before I even say a word He reads, well, in between. My dad and I-we like to fish Or build a model plane, Or fix a broken chair or two Or just a windowpane. My dad and I-we know the score Of every single game; Sometimes he’s really busy, too But he takes me just the same. My dad and I-we go swimming too, Each year and sometimes twice. My dad and I-we do everything; My dad-he’s really nice. My Dad’s Hands Bedtime came, we were settling down, I was holding one of my lads. As I grasped him so tight, I saw a strange sight: My hands. . .they looked like my dad’s! I remember them well, those old gnarled hooks, there was always a cracked nail or two. And thanks to a hammer that strayed from its mark, his thumb was a beautiful blue! They were rough, I remember, incredibly tough, as strong as a carpenter’s vice. But holding a scared little boy at night, they seemed to me awfully nice! The sight of those hands - how impressive it was in the eyes of his little boy. Other dads’ hands were cleaner, it seemed (the effects of their office employ). I gave little thought in my formative years of the reason for Dad’s raspy mitts: The love in the toil, the dirt and the oil, rusty plumbing that gave those hands fits! Thinking back, misty-eyed, and thinking ahead, when one day my time is done. The torch of love in my own wrinkled hands will pass on to the hands of my son. I don’t mind the bruises, the scars here and there or the hammer that just seemed to slip. I want most of all when my son takes my hand, to feel that love lies in the grip.
