It’s strange holding his hand. Strange, yet comforting. He’s a strong guy and has always been like a rock; unmovable and sturdy, comforting, steady, and constant. He’s always been there. No matter what I’ve been going through, how hard of a moment in my life I’ve been having, I’ve always been able to stop and thank God that when it came down to it, I had nothing to worry about – that my dad was there if I truly needed anything. This knowledge, coupled with any hardships that I was facing, has honed a constant state of gratitude in my life. I’ve known that if I couldn’t handle something, that there was this boulder to lean on, to rest my back against, and gather the strength to go back out there and give it another go.
But now, when I hold that strong hand, it doesn’t hold me back. Its strength is dormant and quiet. I can feel it lying beneath that swollen skin, unused and inaccessible. But it doesn’t reassure me. If it weren’t for its warmth (and how reassuring that warmth!) it would be entirely lifeless, this hand. So it’s strange, still comforting somehow, knowing that it’s my strong, constant, reliable dad, feeling his warmth and the familiarity of his touch. But I’ve never had that hand not touch me back.
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