Handholds

My father’s hands are rough and wrinkled.

The dark stains left from scrubbed-off dirt and grass and grease.

The little hairs, the ink from where he drew

with engineer’s precision

plans for the pastures on yellowed graph paper

at the kitchen table.

Once he held a bat with me and said,

“hold it like this, hands together, not too hard but like you mean it.”

My  mother’s hands are swelled and toiled.

The pink wrinkles on the knuckles from soaking in the dishwater.

The speck of dried dough she picks off when she notices,

the callus from the needle,

the lotion smell from the endless struggle against

the marks of struggle.

I remember days when she held up my hand to look at in hers and said,

“yes, you really did a number on yourself, let me wash it out and bandage you up,

let’s be more careful!”

My Savior’s hands are run right through.

Times are when reaches down and grabs mine, pulling me

from the rough chaos of the water

into light and air.