Another year has slipped through my fingers.
Fingers that are starting to look more and more like my dead father’s (well, before he died).
I remember how large and powerful they were, in life.
How tiny and impotent from the casket.
Its been ten years since we sealed them up.
And I miss watching those hands work the harmonica.
God, how he could play.
Some days, when I am missing him the most, I pick up one of mine and let out a few, bent chords.
Then, if I don’t think about it, I can hear his voice and his laugh in the next room.