I feel the rough grooves in my dad’s hands as I place mine in his. His massive fingers, broadened over years of manual labor, envelope mine. Oil and grease and all kinds of dirt are embedded in those grooves. It feels comfortable. The story of my life is written in those hands.

I’m three years old and my dad is tucking me into bed. He tells me about the wild adventures my bear and monkey have gone on the night before. We hide and giggle and try to scare my mom when she comes in to give me a kiss goodnight.

I’m four and I dance around the piano while my dad plays and sings, “That’s my girl, that’s my girl, Kalene. She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

I’m sitting at the dining room table and my dad comes home from work. I feel his big hands scratch the top of my back. “Hi Lizzy,” he says, “How was your day?” He looks tired and completely worn down. I pray he can sleep and rest and not have to think about life for awhile.

I’m in college, just out of class. I check my phone and there’s a message from a pirate saying, “Argh, Lizzy. This is your dad. Want to meet for coffee today?” The pirate and I meet in south campus and drink coffee and share memories.

I’m seven and dad comes home from working the graveyard shift. He tells me he’ll pick me up from school today and we can grab a Blizzard. Then he tries to embarrass me in front of the kids at DQ. I’ve lived with him too long to be embarrassed about anything. He offers to give one of the kids a ride home. He’s a really smelly kid I don’t like. Dad doesn’t care. I sit in the back while he chats with the smelly kid, whose day probably got better because somebody cared.

It’s the final hour of the last tennis match of the season. I get ready to serve and look over at dad. He’s got a banner with my name on it and he’s waving it frantically in the air.

“Take care of my little girl“, he writes on the banner for my going away party. It’s the first time I’ll ever be without him. He’s passing the most important job off to my husband, John, who takes it gladly.

Tears stream down my face as we dance at my wedding to the song he wrote for me, his little girl. I feel a tear splash in my hair and I bury my face in his chest.

I watch him gently and tenderly lower first my grandfather, then my grandmother into the car. He laughs and jokes with them both and they feel young again, if only for a moment. When they die, he sings and plays them both into heaven.

My dad comes to visit me for the first time since I moved away. I watch him hop around the living room as he blares his new favorite 70s ballad over his phone speakers. It feels good to have him and mom here, like picking up where we left off.

I put my hands in his and I’m home again.