These hands, in smudged ink,

Crunched the numbers from

Classy Thursday through Casual Friday,

No breaks,

To set aside the down payment on this very house,

Damn leaky pipes.

These hands eclipsed mine

As together,

We fought the summer breeze to free the kite;

Climbing still, above swirling chaos,

I’m never too old for this shit.

These hands refused the bottle

And haven’t touched one like it in ten years.

In These hands he buried his head

In frustration;

Years of trying for a child,

And nibbled fingernails,

What God would do this to me?

These hands took the worst of the burns;

Cut and bruised from the accident,

Adjoined by prayer,

God is good

And God knows I’m not done here.

In these callused hands grew a boy

Now a man holds yours,

Out-of-character in a borrowed suit,

I never got to tell you how much you mean to me.