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Dear Grandpa,
Today we have read this poem from Jeni Couzyn in English literature. It´s called “My Father´s Hands”. As soon as we started to interpret it, everyone started to talk about their memories as a child.
How big their father´s hands were, how strong they were. How their fathers were these tall, hardworking and caring men who made the impossible possible.
They talked about the evenings they sat infront of the front door and waited impatiently for their dads to come home. How they would ran up to him just to been lifted into the air and swirl around.
When Ono-sensei asked me if I liked to share similar memories with the class I remembered some. I remembered the times I sat infront of the door, waiting for dad and mum to arrive but woke up in my bed the next morning, knowing that the front door never got opened. I remembered how I thought seeing dad in the supermarket but jumped on the back of a stranger in the end. I remembered these big and soft and groomed hands teaching me how to set. They showed me how to write, how to cook, how to take care of my own.
But those hands weren´t dad´s. They were yours.
I probably had spaced out because Ono-sensei started to snip her fingers infront of my face. She looked at me with a questioning look and simply answered: “My memories are similar to those of the others, Sensei.”
She seemed like she didn´t buy this answer but she walked back to the blackboard and continued with the lesson, so it´s fine. Besides, it´s not like my answer was a complete lie.
It´s almost 10 pm and I want to go for a run tomorrow. I also planned to visit you on Sunday. I´ll bring Pork Curry.
I really miss you ...
Love always,
Tobio