Posted in inspirational, journaling

Strong-Father June 2013

hands holding a hand

The circle.

The husband and confidante is the father of the family.

The strong-father treats us well.

The strong-father anticipates the walk.

The strong-father looks for his favorite pocket knife.

The strong-father uses kind language.

The strong-father is happy watching his games on the green.

The strong- father never says stepson. He says,” my son.”

The strong-father looks in his travel bag and sees the cute little flashlight his son bought him for Christmas and says, “Maybe I should take this. I don’t want him to think I don’t use it.”

The strong-vigilant wife looks up from the sink and says, “Honey don’t worry about it. Take that statement you just made and multiply it by 250. Now you know a woman’s mind.”

Take my hand and I’ll take yours. Together we go on the journey.

Happy journaling!

Author:

I'm a writer, artist, and spiritual intuitive. Illustrated journals are my passion and I've been journaling since childhood. I believe in the power of sharing stories together. Working on a memoir.

3 thoughts on “Strong-Father June 2013

  1. Sue, This poem gives me chills. About four months before my dad died, we were walking hand-in-hand down the stairway at the cottage to sit on the swing on the beach when I noticed his hands. It prompted me to write a short piece about My Father’s Hands which I shared with him on his August birthday. In November, while he lay in a coma for 11 days, I sat at his bedside, rubbing his hand and reflecting upon how his hands had guided and supported me my whole life.When he died , I placed the story in his coffin I am so happy I shared it with him while he was alive. Thank you so much for connecting me with my own special memory of my father’s hands through this lovely post.

    1. Kathy, it’s taken me a little while to respond to your post because I’m
      trying to think of what to say. You bring alive what is so powerful when we have to say good-bye to our loved ones. They say we don’t really die, we just change forms, we shed our bodies. I find comfort in that but it doesn’t make the process any easier. Now I’m trying to remember who sang the song “Grandma’s Hands.” Same sentiment.

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