Brown leather gloves on a wooden background
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My Father’s Gloves

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I happened upon a pair of brown leather gloves in the family closet yesterday. It was a very cold day and my gloves were in the car.

I took the gloves, slipped them over my fingers and moved out into the cold weather. I am happy to report that leather actually keeps my hands warm.

Later that day, I realized that the gloves must have belonged to my father. They even look like his hands.

Just looking at his gloves brings me comfort. So happy I can still find ways to keep my father’s memory alive even though I have no idea where his soul resides.

I wonder how he’s doing in Shamayim (heaven). Is his soul at peace, has he healed from his many challenges here? Has his soul returned to this life in another body? I am so curious.

I miss him and am happy to be wearing his gloves. They are quite warm and old. You can tell they were well-worn. The leather is creased and discolored, and they’ve taken on the shape of the hands that wore them.

They’re not big gloves. My father had small hands for a man, but they were much bigger than my hands. Wearing his gloves is almost like holding my father’s hands. His hands are keeping me warm. And warmth is something my father had; he was a warm man with a big heart.

I recall many things he did with his hands.

I remember, as a life insurance salesman, he had a gigantic book full of numbers penciled in to keep tabs on all his customers. Oh, how he loved counting the big wads of money he collected.

I can see him driving, using his hands to turn the wheel of the car. Click-click-click… his fingers push the remote to change the channels on the television. I remember his making omelets that he loved, greeting friends and family, with a warm, steady handshake and a smile.

He held us as children at night while my mom slept. To make extra money, he drove a taxi cab, mixed and served drinks for catered parties and worked in a pawn shop. My dad had very busy hands.

When he was sick for the last eight years of his life we hugged often, his hands and arms embracing with love and care. My mom and I held his hands as he passed from this world to the next.

All this has me thinking about our hands and the power inherent in them. The thought occurred to me “if the eyes are the windows to the soul, what are the hands? In an article I came upon by Rosemary Freedman, Hands, (Peter Owen Publishers). She adds that our hands allow us to express the power inherent in us. She says, “Our hands are a conduit of power, transforming unseen energy into the world of form.”

I concur and add that hands bless, protect, hold, wave and comfort. We fold our hands in prayer, they bring about healing, connection and love. It is no secret that many of us move our hands as we speak. The list seems endless.

Now, every year on the anniversary of my father‘s death, I strike a match to light the yartzeit candle in his memory, with my hands.

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Read more by Hinda Blum.

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