Hands

Hands

~~~~~~

Sometimes I can remember his hands more than his face

Hands like a Jack B.Yeats painting

Large and tanned and always busy.

A country man's hands with

perfect strength for a spade

but with enough finesse to get a tune from the banjo, mandolin, tin-whistle.

I can see those fingers now lepping and jumping on and off the holes or strumming on the strings of choice

Practising at home on repeat or performing in the pub

Head thrown back in mid-flow.

Watching him from the back seat of the car before Mass when the others had gone in.

Neither of us with any inclination to follow

Tapping his gold rings on the steering wheel, a bodhrán rhythm he made to the tune on the cassette

A whistle always on his lips

How often i saw those fists slam down on the kitchen table in exasperation of my inability to do the dreaded maths homework

My head nodding furiously when he asked did I understand it now?

(me still not having a clue)

Watching as he held the knife sideways to pare the pencil lain flat on his finger.

I saw an old photo recently of myself and my sister on his knee

His arms easily circling us both

He was smiling.

Shirt sleeves rolled up

Those strong brown fingers were soft yet clasped tight, secure.

It rained that day in June

We tucked his whistle in his top pocket with his handkerchief

I didn't want to look at his face all grey, waxy and unfamiliar

So I kept my eyes focused on his hands unusually still and quiet

but still unchanged

Áine McGarry 🌞