His Hands Were Resting

Dad was in his big chair tonight. He fell asleep with the TV still on. I was walking by to get some water, and I stopped.

The lamp next to him was on. It made his hands look different. They were resting on his legs. They weren’t holding a tool or a steering wheel. They were just still.

I saw all the lines on them. So many lines. Like a map of a place I’ve never been. His knuckles were big. The skin looked rough and dry. There was a little cut on his thumb that was starting to heal.

These are the hands that fix my bike. The hands that make my breakfast. The hands that work all day long so we can have this house.

He never talks about being tired. He never complains that something hurts. He just comes home and eats dinner and asks me about my day.

I stood there in the quiet room for a long time. Something was happening inside my chest. It was a big feeling. It wasn’t happy and it wasn’t sad. It was just… heavy. And warm. Like holding a smooth rock that’s been in the sun.

It was like I understood a secret. A secret about him. About how much he loves us without ever saying the words.

I wanted to put a blanket on him. I wanted to tell him thank you.

But I didn’t want to wake him up. So I just stood there and watched his hands. Finally resting.