Iorek's Writing

A Hand

By John Jarvis

2003-04-13

My father's hands are thick and wide, his fingers like stubby sausages. While mine are more delicate, I don't have the fingers of a pianist, much to my parents' chagrin. When I think of his hands, one story pushes its way to the front of the line, and the commotion's all about those differences.

When I was younger and living in Newfoundland, my father would take my brother and I on day trips. In the summer, they'd often stretch to weekend trips in our camper, or overnight trips in our tent. Canadian winters and townie kids don't mix well though, so Dad kept it to day trips in the colder months.

One winter we'd been heading out regularly on our cross-country skis, and Dad decided to take my brother and I to a new place; I don't remember the name of the frozen lake, but it was farther out of town than we normally went. The day was gray, and in the still the cold made our steps deafening as we crunched our way to the car. My face was no doubt sullen and defeated as I climbed into the back seat. I didn't enjoy most of these trips. I'd spend as much time wishing I was home as being in the moment.

I remember the white scene as Dad stopped the car. There was no one around and the strip of land we'd stopped on was the first open area in a while. The trees just opened up and there we were, a bit of the lake beyond the passenger side of the car, and the huge expanse of the lake to the other. The wind was strong here, and it took my breath away as I got out of the car. My brother and I stood shivering in our snowsuits - we were accustomed to the toasty car by then - as Dad got the skis off the roof rack.

That was probably the first concerned look he gave us; it wouldn't be the last. I tried to put on my bravest face. The anxiety was building: the battle of the boy longing for home against the would-be young man who didn't want to let his father down.

Despite complete faith in my dad's abilities, I remember my unease as I skied out on the lake. The snow was a sheet, and looking out over that whiteness made the shore seem so far away. I don't remember what I had on my hands, but they were tingled almost immediately, and less fine each time Dad asked. The concern in his eyes made my chest hurt.

Dad eventually decided we looked too miserable to continue; he led us to an island and set about building a fire. I remember being huddled up with my brother, wishing I was anywhere else; home was one of many acceptable places at that point.

Dad looked up from his work and said, "How're your hands?"

I don't remember what I said, but I do remember my horror as he took off his insulated mittens and handed them to me. It was horrible, the relief that flooded through me, shame nipping at its heels. I stared at his hands, getting redder by the minute, and just wanted to cry. He paused to rub them together every now and then, and all I could say was "Yes" to his queries about whether my hands were feeling better.

He got a nice fire going, but we didn't stay long; it was just too cold. But I'll never forget that day; the snot freezing in my nose, staring at his hands, and wishing mine could be more like his.