Hands a Bereavement Journal entry as I mourn the loss of my Father

I think I miss his hands the most.
I started by squeezing his giant finger with my baby hand. I held on and felt his soul, matching mine, and the pride that I was so strong. When I learned to walk he caught me with those giant hands and let go of me teaching me to step on my own. They rubbed my baby back until I fell asleep. I caught frisbee's and football's from those hands. I learned to tie my shoes watching those thick fingers spin around the laces of my tiny shoes. They dug out splinters from my feet. They saved me from choking once. They earned a living driving heavy equipment. They taught me long division so patiently. As I grew they changed. They became more scarred and wrinkled. They hesitated before giving me away on my wedding day, shaking but holding me so tight. I watched them caress my tiny baby for the first time.
I saw millions of cigarettes in those hands over the years. Later an oxygen hose and sensor covered the giant fingertips. He clutched the dashboard as I drove, silently praying to a god he didn't believe in. He handed my mom invisible keys that only he could see and ate imaginary sandwiches. His hands turned cold and his circulation worsened. His hands held ours and he rubbed his thumbs over the backs of our soft smaller hands. He wasn't able to speak but he held on until he could hold on no longer.
There is something about his hands that I miss. I held on and felt his soul leaving and the pride that I was so strong. Now if I fall I have to catch myself.
Out of everything I miss his hands the most.