My Father’s Hands
My father’s hands tell a story of hard work and love. Rough from years of labor, they’ve fixed broken bikes, built shelves, and wiped away my tears. Every night, those hands fold into prayer, guiding our family with quiet faith. One winter, when I fell and scraped my knee, his hands carried me home, warm despite the snow. Now, as I grow older, I notice how they tremble slightly, a reminder of time’s passage. Yet they still pat my shoulder reassuringly or hold mine during storms. These hands are not just tools—they’re a symbol of protection, a bridge between my childhood and adulthood. In them, I see a lifetime of sacrifice, and in their grip, I feel unwavering love.