I have my Father's hands. I see them everyday.
They're short and fat, weathered by life.
They never go away
His hands were cast for labor,
No gift or shortcuts shared.
They're shaped to build, form and frame
I see my father through those hands
The struggles, joy and pain
He asks for little, expects no less
His motive is my gain
My father's hands have lost their past,
Foggy without direction.
Thoughts are clouded and confused,
He grasps now for protection.
I have my Father's hands,
I see them everyday,
I know his past,
I am his son,
He's never gone away.
PATRICK MURPHY is a graduate of Ottawa High School and the University of Illinois. He is a medical illustrator and lives with his family in Medina, Ohio. His mother, Marlene Murphy, submitted the poem, which Patrick wrote for his father, Tom Murphy. Tom is now in a nursing care facility for Alzheimer's.
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