Your hands are rough, the hands of a man who has worked his entire life. Your hands are worn from the sun and from the years of providing for your family. It is shown in your seemingly constant bloody knuckles and raw finger tips.
These same hands held my own. They picked dandelions and caught me before I could fall. They patched up skinned knees. They skillfully applied Halloween makeup and tied my shoes.
Steadily they remained. They sent me soaring through the air on a swing and gently pushed me towards dreams I thought too big. They wiped away tears when I flew too close to the sun.
They knew when to take my hand and stand beside me, like the child I believed I no longer was.
And as I hold your hand now, under these florescent lights, I remember the gentle hands. The guiding hands. The hands that provided. The hands of my father.