His firm hands
Held mine tight whenever we’re at the mall, keeping me safe and not letting me stray off.
Paused and washed clean while in the middle of working on the machines just to help me fiddle w/ the toy robots too complicated for me to play alone.
Carried a mug around his office and maintains unfazed after downing bottles of beer in the middle of the day.
Patted me on my shoulder after agreeing to pay half for the playstation console I’ve been saving for almost 2 years with my allowance.
Felt dry whenever I held them, they were strong but weary. How I admire them as it showed me a glimpse of the struggle it took to get to where he was.
These were the hands that spoke to me during video calls, giving me a thumbs up and a nod after showing him around my home, my drawings, my work. These hands spoke to me when his voice could no longer do so.
And over a month ago, after over a decade of not seeing him, I arrived and held these familiar hands. They were still firm and dry as I remembered, but cold. These were the hands that battled cancer and pneumonia.
Rest in peace, Papa.