Dad's hands

My dad's hands are one of my favorite parts of him. As he lay in the hospital bed there are a few little things that I notice more than his hands. I see his eyes (sometimes when he is not resting). I see the line of tubes and needles and beeps and flashing numbers. But I see his hands.
When I was little I loved those hands because those large capable hands could fix anything. They could make sure I was safe and pick me up to sit on shoulders. They could open the most stubborn lid. They held tools that would create beautiful functional leather pieces. They occasionally were my regretful spankers.
Later in my life I miss that those hands should fix everything. Now I must fix many of my own messes and calm my own fears. I sit in the hands of God. But as my father is infirmed in this time his hands are so sweet. They are the emblem of his strength. I hold those hands and they hold mine. It feels good. I am there to comfort but instead his hands comfort me.