When Daddy’s Hands Were Bigger

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Staring at an old framed photograph hanging on my parent’s wall,
It stopped me in my tracks as I was walking down their hall,
I just stood there, going back in time, letting it all soak in,
As memories, like a slide show, reminded me of life back then.

Hauling hay, smelling the sweet grass, riding high on a half-ton Chevy truck,
Splitting wood until blisters formed, then stacking all of it up,
Raking leaves around the roots of the giant white oak late in the fall,
Shooting hoops in the driveway and chasing down the ball.

Riding my bike on Harmony Drive, peddling that black Huffy for hours,
Building a fort in the woods under fallen pine trees near the pasture,
Removing debris damming the little backyard creek to help it flow,
Growing up outside, a young man, always on the go.

The flashbacks began to fade as I slowly came back to the present,
But the last thought I had held me there for several more seconds…
Back then it was a different world of busy, and life was so much simpler,
When Daddy’s hands were bigger.

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