My father has been gone for almost six and a half years. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. One of the things I frequently think about are his hands.

How big they were compared to mine.

How rough they were compared to mine.

How strong they were compared to mine.

My father could do anything with his hands: build a boat, plant a garden, tile a floor, dig a ditch, paint a house and even knead bread. As a young child, I remember wanting to hold my father’s hand all the time.

And now, I watch our little chicken reach for my husband’s hand. “Let’s go,” she says pulling at his fingers. “One, twooo, one, twooo,” she says counting each of his fingers on his left hand.

And, I smile.