My Father's Hand

I took this photo of my father’s hand 6 days before he died. He was sleeping, a great gift to a terminally ill man, a dreamscape where he could breathe deeply and stand with ease, his back straight and legs strong; where he could speak with gasp-free clarity on topics unassociated with increasing oxygen levels or tying loose ends; where he could brush his own teeth and wash his own face. Where he could eat more than a few meager bites, the simple joy of a good meal a pleasure most of us take for granted.

He weighed 86 lbs at the end. A shell of skin and bone and struggle. Hand gestures were more common than words. He was barely recognizable, a victim of his body’s wrath. Except for the eyes, dark and unwavering - our Moorish heritage passed down through the generations. They are my eyes. And now that his light has gone out, they are mine alone to carry in this world.

A passion for art and literature, for travel and exploration, for perpetual learning, for lively after-dinner conversations with friends - these also came from him, along with a fierce drive for independence - intellectually, financially, whole-heartedly. All these wonderful traits far outweigh those on my shadow side, which I indisputably acquired through the paternal line, as well.

They are one and the same, these myriad human facets. They are me. And for this - the good, the bad, the thrilling and mundane - I will be forever grateful.

My parents on their wedding day.