My father knows which lettuce to pick out. He knows which apples are good, which ones still need time to ripen, which tomatoes are juicier. He knows where to park, where to find the best deals, the best sales.
I hold onto my father’s hand as we walk by the Potomac River. I hold on to a hand that is now wrinkled, full of scars of the past and the present. A hand that held on to his children’s hands when their mother wasn’t there to do it. A hand that carried the weight of everyday tasks when mother was gone. A hand that is still scarred by wounds, wounds that will never heal.
My father knows when to let go of my hand. He knows that I count on him for being there for me, for protecting me, for loving me.
He seldom speaks to me about himself, his life or his pains. We seldom speak. But my father and I watch out for each other and our unspoken love for one another is strong enough to keep us together.