dad hands, my hands building a wooden box

to store the pocket knives collected, never realizing

the memory they would become.

dad hands, my hands

struggling to stay upright

on a bicycle, swerving and shaking, scared of falling,

riding down the hill not realizing you had let go.

dad hands, my hands

walking the garden,

picking turnips, eating

them just like that,

a sprinkle of salt to

kill the dirt.

dad hands, my hands

playing with the dogs

you brought home for me.

that's all i really remember

but at least i’ve got that.

dad’s hand pulled the

trigger that lead to

my hand squeezing my children’s hands just

a little bit tighter.