They look like big, strong hands, don't they?

I'm not football player material. I stand about 5'9 1/2" on a good day and I've always called myself "wiry" (which is supposed to make you think of Spiderman, or someone like that: thin but strong.) That said I can palm a basketball, four times in five; I think my hands are a little larger than average for my size.

My dad was my opposite, physically. There was nothing about him that could not be called "mountainous". To steal a riff from Palahnuik, he was "enormous, the way you think of gods as big." Sometimes we would play Mercy. Do you know that game? Where you lace fingers and see who can force the other's wrist to bend backward until they give up? It was always sort of funny because dad's hand would engulf mine, and he would let me win.

That's the thing I remember about my dad. His sense of strength, of presence, and that is summarized in his hands. In the way if I tried to hold his hand, I ended up holding that chunk of muscle that holds the thumb to the palm because that was as much as his hand could fit into mine. The way his hand would thump you on the back like a ten pound ham when he hugged you, or on the thigh when you sat by him, giving you the knowledge he loved you to go with the feeling of having the wind knocked out of you. Somehow, just having his hand on your shoulder made you feel stronger, more capable, loved, and protected.

Dad died early last month. I can barely remember his voice, but I remember his hands.