This is my Dad’s hand, wearing his Class of 1945 Nazareth High School ring. It’s a timeworn hand, showing its large veins, wrinkled skin, and various spots. It’s the hand that held me, disciplined me, praised me, and raised me.
Dad would have turned 95 years old today. That his birthday so closely aligned with Father’s Day each year was always fitting to me because his life epitomized Fatherhood’s ideals and principles.
As I’ve gotten older, people who’ve known us both have told me I sound like him. I’ve caught myself speaking with his inflection, singing with his phrasing, even laughing like him. I’ve been known to spout his style of “Dadisms.” And if I wind up turning into my dad, that’s probably both the best tribute and the best thing I’ll ever do.
I’m on my way: the actual hand pictured is my own. And every time I look at it, I think of him.