I remember how much I loved my dad’s touch. He would sit on my bed and rub my back, or drive Hot Wheels around on it, making car noises and big swoopy loops.
I liked the cars, but I loved the feel of his hands; their touch conveyed such a deep love and care that I would begin to nod off almost immediately, but I would fight the sleepiness to enjoy the touch for just a while longer.
I remember the love in my dad’s touch as sit on my daughter’s bed and run my hands through her hair. Her eyes are closed, but I’m watching the corners of her mouth curl up in a tired smirk–her way of encouraging me to continue– just as I once did.
The legacy of my dad’s love is carried through my hands to my daughter’s heart.