My dad has always had large hands
the hands of a hard working man,
crusted with oil and dirt,
covered with callouses.
My little girl hands
knew nothing about how to fingerpaint
except swirling large globs of color
around the page.
One day, I asked him to paint me a cowboy.
Those massive hands
took the colors and smeared them around.
And before my eyes
he took away some of the paint
and magically a cowboy came to life.
is still in my hands,
which says so much
about the memory
I hold in my heart.
— Deborah L. Tisch, April 2014
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Twenty-two more days in April, and that means twenty-two more poems. What was I thinking??? Sharing them here is keeping me on track, and once again, I have to say thank you for your kind words.