After several drafts and about an hour before the deadline was up, I made myself send it. I wasn't nervous about the contest, I was nervous because I put something out there that is very close to my heart-and something very painful. Someone found my words worthy of first place, and since the whole town will find me out pretty soon I figured I'd share it on here too.
Thanks for reading,
Mrs. Redd
“Hands”
By Rachael Redd
"Daddy loves you, Babydoll. Jesus loves you too,” he whispered. I took his hand in mine and told him I loved
him, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Weak and pale, my father had withered to a
mere 84 pounds over the course of his illness. I gazed down at his frail hand, and
concentrated on the soft throb of his heartbeat.
I squeezed his hand and raised it to my cheek. Secretly I noticed for his pulse again, but
this time his heart was still. I waited;
my own heart thumped harder. I realized it was not my imagination this time.
I thought about all the beautiful things he had
made, how he held me before bed when I was small and all the birthday cakes he
had decorated. I always thought it was
funny when he slathered Vicks all over his nose at night, and how the way he
ate his cereal irritated my mother. Then
I remembered how he cradled his head in his hands from the headaches, the
bloody handkerchiefs he held to his nose, and how his hands shook sometimes. Reluctantly, I laid his hand down beside him,
and let him go.
There was a designated place in my mind where I
stored those three years. The terms malignant and benign were tucked away in there.
Every episode of amnesia, every seizure and radiation treatment was
boxed up and stacked out of sight. His
death filled the remaining space. When I was finally able to move, I ran
outside. The screen door slammed behind
me, and I locked it all away.
My father was attacked by a fugitive that no law can
control. Cancer is an evil, intangible
thief elusive to justice. My father was an
artist, preacher, and veteran- a man who’s every endeavor from birthday cakes
to sermons was a masterpiece. Those
awful memories remain in their vault, but I embrace the pleasant thoughts of a
hero who loved God and country, his family, and to create.
Later on in life, I was blessed with another father
through marriage. He was an admirable
man as well: an athlete, avid outdoorsman, and full of compassion. Then the hunter, whose skilled hands provided
for his family, fell prey to the predator of cancer.
I see how my children admire their own father, and I
see the gifts they’ve inherited starting to bloom. Together, their father and I
cultivate the seedlings planted in their precious little hands in honor of both
our fathers, and pray justice will one day be served in the form of a cure.
