Born on this day 71 years ago.

A decade passed since the last celebrated with him.

His favorite pie, steak’s on the grill, a side of dry rub wings while we sat on the patio watching the deer dance down the hill. Daisy dog by his side.

Looking at the well-worn hands, holding the beer, you wouldn’t have guessed him a preacher.

Years spent weaving words together for his “day job” yet true joy came from moments spent in his yard on that hill or at his beach house, the constant battle with the encroaching prickly bushes.

Two days before he passed, as we stood around him, I rubbed his thumb.  The low hum of the medical devices keeping him alive became the background music as I stared at those hands, flooded with a lifetime of memories.

He and I on our knees inspecting my work done with hand shears trimming the lawn. Gentle correction to cut the grass shorter next time.

His hands on the steering wheel, another road trip adventure to some far-flung battlefield. His baritone belting out You are My Sunshine.

His hands a reflection of his message, of how he choose to live his life;

battle-scarred, worn rough from working and loving hard.

One day these words will fade but I hope its my hands the girls will remember, may they resemble his.