Will she remember those hands? I sincerely hope so. I like to imagine that the memory of those hands will linger long after the evening concludes. The specific details of the night may fade, but the image of the large, rough, and callused hands fastening the simple corsage should remain vivid in her mind—a yellow carnation secured on a slip of elastic with a dash of Velcro.
My role was straightforward: I was there to assist with dressing and to take photographs. It wasn’t until they stepped out into the downpour that I felt the tears welling up inside me. My father and I never attended a formal dance together, although we did share a dance at my wedding, and I vividly recall those hands that clasped mine, along with the sparkle in his eyes filled with joy.
While formal dances were absent from my childhood, we did partake in regular outings with the Indian Princess program. The year following my brother’s passing, we joined the same group of fathers and their teenage daughters for a white-water rafting adventure in the North Carolina mountains. It held significant meaning for me, witnessing the effort my father made to bond with me, and now I was observing a similar connection between my daughter and her father.
It is those hands I hope she cherishes: the hands that may have struggled slightly with the yellow flower but were steady and reassuring. This was the father who made it a point to come home early, ensuring that his eager six-year-old daughter, already a diligent timekeeper, wouldn’t be left waiting. If he made her wait, there would be consequences, and I found amusement in the playful reprimands exchanged—much like any mother who has come to accept patterns in her marriage.
She has transformed the dynamic. Her small hands reach out for him every evening, seeking a goodnight hug, coaxing his strong hands into playful swings with a bath towel, or requesting a tickle. She has carved a space in his heart that I never could, and it’s truly wonderful to witness.
I want her to remember the man who first fell in love with her. Even though he belongs to another, I hope she captures fleeting moments that embody what genuine love looks like. It is gentle and nurturing, conveyed through a father’s touch—a cool hand smoothing her dark hair to check for a fever, hands that cradle her small ones as they bounce together on the trampoline Santa brought three Christmases ago.
Those hands that recently presented her with a corsage will soon rub sunscreen on her growing limbs as she wriggles in impatience. This summer, those same hands will guide her as she learns to drive the boat, and I will be there to witness it all, capturing the moment in my mind. I will silently implore: Remember those hands, my dear—both of you.
For more insights on parenting and creating lasting memories, visit Make a Mom’s blog. Additionally, for advice on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this helpful resource: Women’s Health.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, a parent hopes their daughter will remember the loving and steady hands of her father, which symbolize a deep bond and nurturing love. Through shared experiences and memories, the essence of parental love is captured, underscoring the importance of these moments in a child’s life.
Keyphrase: Hands of Love
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