Memorial

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My father died six years ago, but I think of him every day. It isn’t any nugget of wisdom he passed on to me that brings his image to mind, but one of the homeliest of daily activities.

I take so many medications nowadays that every so often, about once a week, I make up daily bottles, so that I don’t have to open ten or so other bottles twice a day. Each evening, I take one of these bottles out of the drawer where I keep them and empty its contents onto the dining room table. Then I separate the pills and capsules into two piles, one my evening medicines and the other those I will take the following morning.

Holding my right hand under the edge of the table, I sweep the morning pills off with my left hand, catching them in my right. Then I cup my right hand, making it a sort of funnel, hold the empty bottle under the heel of my hand, and guide the pills into the bottle.

That’s it. That’s what brings my father back to me.

Each time I do it, I remember my father showing me how when I was a child. I also remember watching him do it hundreds, maybe thousands of times, over the years. And I remember how his hands looked. He had strong hands, with long, square-tipped fingers. His hands were warm but a little hard. He did so many things around the house, from maintaining the cars to repairing anything that needed fixing, that his hands never had a chance to get soft.

Of course, once I think of him, I remember so much else. Sometimes those memories make me smile. Every once in a while, they make me cry.

Although my hands are more delicate, I inherited my father’s hands. That’s always been a source of secret pride for me. My son inherited them from me. I wonder if his children will inherit them from him.

It's not much of a memorial, but at least it endures.
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