Dad's hands

My dad is the one that taught me how to peel an orange. He would sit at the head of the kitchen table in his pajamas just before my bedtime, a cluster of two, sometimes three oranges arranged in front of him. There was a certain close of the back door that my ears seemed to know; a sound that meant my dad had brought the oranges in from the box in the garage. I would scurry in and take a seat beside him, tucking my knees up under my chin to watch. One at a time he would roll the fruit in his big hands, looking for that perfect spot to start peeling. I think he liked the familiar oily texture of the skin because no matter how long he rolled the orange around in his hands, he always picked the same place to start peeling—sinking his teeth in just enough to pull out a piece on the stem end. It was magic to me as a young girl to see the steady, deliberate way he used thumb and fingers to weave around and around the fruit. As more and more of the orange flesh was exposed, the curl of peel got longer and longer, dangling just above the surface of the table. With the last section of peel removed, my dad would quickly divide the orange in two, handing me half. Sometimes Dad would tell a story or two while we ate our oranges, memories of the Idaho farm, his favorite cows and the family dog, Caesar.

I realize now that my Dad speaks his love with his hands. Love communicated through handmade wood creations finished in the wee hours of the morning to be ready for Christmas morning. Love communicated through unsolicited back and shoulder rubs as I ate breakfast or did homework. Love communicated through his work in the garden, in cultivating the land to bring a bounteous harvest for his family. Love communicated in as simple a thing as peeling an orange and sharing half with me. I love you Dad. Happy Father’s Day.