My Father’s Hands

My father’s hands were large, with
wide palms and long fingers. Strong,
and calloused from years of hard labor
building walls, walkways and homes.

The delicate work he left
for more dainty hands because his
were too big to thread a needle,
but he did brush his daughters' hair.
He started at the bottom
and worked toward the top
so the knots untangled easily.

He shuffled the deck to play a game of cards
dealt to anyone who sat at his table.
He listened to what they had to say,
and when the game was over closed his eyes
and took a deep breath of his unfiltered cigarette.

I remember his hands folded
in prayer, illuminated by candlelight
and how he wiped his cheeks
when my mother died
his hands didn’t seem
large enough to hold all his tears.