Father’s Hands by Lee Hsiu
Everything was tangible and secure when father appeared. But I recall this particular day was a disaster in my life. On that day I played by myself in the backyard and I climbed up to the top of a table with difficulty. While I was cheering on my success, a tall goose stretched his neck and opened his mouth to move in on me like a snake. Even though I was crying and screaming, he still stretched his neck around the table threatening me. We looked as if we were playing hide-and-seek. The sky was overcast with clouds and the rain was endless. At the very time I was trying to escape from the evil goose, a pair of strong hands suddenly held me. I was fiercely gripped in my father’s arms but I felt like I was embraced in a safe light.
“Don’t cry! My sweet heart! Dad has already thrown that awful animal out. I will kill him as soon as possible!” That evening I developed a severe fever. In my memory, a pair of sturdy hands held me tightly and we went to see the doctor…then and there. I think that without the powerful grip of my father’s hands, I couldn’t have had a sweet dream. Just by clinging instinctively to his arms I began to feel better then. That year, I was only five.
Every one at home relied on father’s helping hands to grow and to flourish naturally; otherwise, if we lost those hands, we would have been helpless and frail.
When I was 7 years young, we had a miserable day in my home. First, Dad was on the night shift, so Mom urged us to sit down to dinner, gave us our baths and then sent us to bed early because of a power failure. Without father we seemed to lack a big support.
That night when a loud pounding at the door rudely interrupted our dreams we wondered, “What was that?” I felt we were going to get into more trouble from Mom’s nervousness and confusion. The terrible sound from the front door was of a deafening, almost morbid variety. Not long after the door latch was being hit by rough force, it was going to be broken at any moment. Luckily, father had already made more bars to strengthen security.
When mother rushed to the back door in a panic to ask the neighbor to rescue us, we all huddled together in our fright. Finally, the knocking stopped. At the same time, Mom was prostrate with exhaustion but she patted us softly, “The robber has been caught, we are safe now.” At last, Dad came home from work as expected at daybreak.
After that incident, father attached more bars to the door for better security at night. His hands always acted for our safekeeping whether inside or outside. We went from tenants to being landlords, a difficult time that depended on both our parents’ hard work. However, just when we settled down, mother passed away.
Although my brothers had gotten married and started careers, father had never taken a rest because now he paid more attention to me. Not only did he need to overcome his grief for his spouse, but also he needed to console and solace his daughter. Surprisingly, he thought to use music to soothe my spirit. One sunny day, his hands sweatily carried a big “butterfly-qin” (Taiwanese stringed instrument) and said, “Try it out, it sounds pretty nice.”
I played on it for just one week and responded, “This is boring, and I prefer the piano.” I knew the piano was an expensive item, particularly in those days. I also recognized my frugal father couldn’t buy it. In contrast, one day his brawny hands mysteriously waved an envelope in my face,
“Guess how we are going to spend this money.”
“I know it is for a piano!” I said straightforwardly because he never disappointed me.
After that, when I played the piano, my father’s blue-veined hands filled my brain all the time because I so appreciated what he had done for me. I was now truly disciplined in my music. The piano accompanied me through many days of wind and storm. And then I decided to accept the white picket fence. My father released his hands from me, so that his new son-in-law could accomplish his wish.
Now that I had moved to a fifth-floor apartment, my father wanted to use some old wood to make some stools for our balcony. In fact, there were many cheap stools in the market, but I couldn’t bear to pour cold water on my dear Dad’s enthusiasm. After two days, he made four pieces. My son whispered in my ear, “Grandpa’s stools are crummy.” I looked at him reproachfully, and turned to my father with a smile, “They all feel you are so versatile that we will enjoy your work.”
“Hey! Hey!” he replied. “I am not boasting about my handicrafts. I recall that when a typhoon blew up our roof tiles, I could actually do a better job of fixing them than the contractors.”
Yes! Father! Your hands, from strong to weak, are always with us!
