Jordan loved his daddy’s hands. They were large and brown like gloves. The baseball landed softly in his fingers. There were many evenings he played catch with his dad. Sometimes, he’d morph his hands into a giant swing and little Jordan soared up into the wind. He was like a kite drifting in daddy’s hands. On other days, daddy’s hands would grow funny and ticklish, sending Jordan into bursts of giggles. They were spry and feisty like ten finger people. He howled aloud and his daddy would stop.
There were days when daddy’s hands acted as a guide in the bustling crowd. Jordan couldn’t see his father’s smiling face but recognized his large hand tugging him forward. He was grateful that his daddy’s hands could heal. When Jordan scraped an elbow and knee, daddy’s hands knew how to stop the bleeding. He had a band aid in hand and a gentle touch. Most days daddy’s hands were filled with music. His fingers skipped along black and white keys. Jordan heard perfect harmony. He danced happily in daddy’s melody.
But what daddy shared above all was hands of love. Sometimes, it was a gentle pat upon his head. Jordan looked up and saw his father grinning. Or his arms would stretch out wide in a bear hug. His hands clasped tightly around Jordan, and he’d lift him with a squeeze.
Jordan missed those days with his father. But he gazed down at his own grown hands and witnessed the self-assurance of his father possessed him. He splashed his face with water and stared in the mirror. His father was beaming back at him.