Dads Hands

 
His hands were callused as I cradled them in my soft ones, 
Laced with a lifetime of hard work. 
I could almost smell the diesel fuel that once stained his fingers,
And see the dirt that was caked under his now clean nails. 
In those hands I saw his past, his years of pouring concrete,
Teaching us the benefit of working hard.
His hands showed strength, even now covered in wrinkles.
Strength to persevere through the death of his love,
As he kept living and pushing on.
They showed comfort, soothing me through hard times
always there to help, whenever any of his children needed him.
I held them  close, as they went cold,
Leaving only their memory behind.
 
  

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