My father had aged visibly and his insistent allegiance to his own independence was pulling him toward isolation. He no longer drove at night, so outings to parties and meetings were curtailed. There were no opportunities for casual handshaking, a pat on the back, or a simple hug from a long-time friend. His grandsons, my sons, were too old now to climb on his lap for a reading of “Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel.” They no longer walked on either side of their grandfather, each holding his hand as the went to explore the Planets exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre. My mother was in her own sphere of privacy. Maybe she hugged him in the morning and shared a goodnight kiss, but I never saw it. As near as I could tell, no one ever touched my father anymore.
So, I thought, this needs to change somehow.
Dinner was in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. It was easier there and cozier. I sat to my father’s left. At some point in the conversation, lively as always, there was a pause in my father’s tale about trying to convince a horse hitched to a farm cart to back up. He put his hand on the table, just alongside his plate. I put mine gently, but noticeably, on his. “So what did you do?” I asked. He pulled his hand out from mine as he might have from a hot oven and shot me a glance that might have been a glare. He continued his story.
At 85 years of age, my father’s hands looked well-used, like the hands of an intrepid gardener should look. He had short fingernails and long elegant fingers with joints often swollen by arthritis. The blue veins on the back of his hands were prominent pathways and the skin was an uneven color. None of this was unlovely to me. I like the way hands age, reflecting a life of useful activity.
The conversation moved on to other tales of derring-do. I noticed my father’s hand was back on the table, resting immobile, precisely where it had been when I dared to touch him. We were on to politics. "So, what do you think the Liberals in Quebec will do now?" I inquired, and again, I put my hand on his, only this time he didn’t move. He began his response, whatever it was, and I gave his hand a gentle pat as I withdrew into my own space. My father looked at me and smiled.
