June 17, 2018

From the very first time I met Kent, I was always fascinated with his hands. They were hands unlike any I had ever seen on the men I knew. My frame of reference of course was limited, mainly my nonno’s or any of my uncle’s hands, and if you’ve seen them, you’d understand. Those hands are meant for clobbering, thick sausages attached to massive palms, made like that from difficult work and genetics. Kent’s hands were … different. Not in a bad way, just different. I think about his hands now and how they were used when we met, to hold beakers and test tubes at work. They were built for precision. How when he worked at a restaurant in Bridgeland they were used to make delicious food, but those same hands that made culinary masterpieces were chaffed and cracked from cutting countless tomatoes. I think of how those hands held my hands on our dates, on our engagement and eventually on our wedding day. I think of how his hands rubbed my back when I was in labor, and how I got mad at him for not doing a good job, and told him to move out of the way because the nurse was doing it better. I think of how those hands changed diapers, prepared bottles and gently cut soft fingernails. I think of those hands painting nursery walls, assembling furniture and hundreds of toys. I think of those hands turning pages in books, building lego, strumming a guitar. I think of those hands brushing tiny pearly white baby teeth, “suplexing” his sons onto our bed, holding the back of bikes only to let them go. I think of those tanned vacation hands, one holding Matteo or Domenic, the other pulling luggage. I think of the countless hours those hands spent typing, researching a cure, a therapy, an anything to help Matteo. I see those hands opening chemo pills, and measuring the proper doses of everything. I see those white knuckles holding the steering wheel, driving us to our radiation appointments. I see those hands, holding on to Matteo, carrying him, caressing him, loving him in his final days and hours. I see those hands holding me and Matteo as he took his final breaths. I see how those hands have become the hands of a brother for Domenic. I see how the hands of a worker, husband, father, brother, son, cousin, friend, gardener, mechanic, plumber, chef, etc are so busy, yet feel idle because there is a role for these hands that is missing, and can never be filled.

Sometimes, dads are forgotten. I can guarantee that Kent has been asked more about how I am doing, than I have been asked about how he is doing. We have this idea that men are supposed to be strong and immune to the sorrows of this life. Keep your chin up. Have a stiff upper lip. It doesn’t work like that, or at least it shouldn’t work like that. There’s no doubt that an immeasurable bond is created in the 9 months a child is within their mother, but Matteo and Domenic are only half me, and since half of my heart is gone, half of Kent’s is too. And so these hands, on Father’s Day and everyday, are still holding the hands of two little boys. One, the hand of a growing little boy who is sensitive, smart and kind, just like his dad. The other hand is holding an angel in heaven. There’s no bigger stretch, and there’s no greater love.