These Hands

We haven’t seen one another for a few years. The two of us are sitting at my kitchen table, catching up on the significant moments we are eager to share. I glance down to collect my thoughts. My eyes are drawn to his hands, one placed gently on top of the other. I gaze at my own hands, one placed gently on top of the other, only a few inches away from his.

In that moment, I understand the genetic code. I don’t need years of study or research to know that my lineage is part of his. I reach out and place our hands together.

“Look, Dad. The age marks on our hands have similar patterns!” I chuckle, as we compare our two left hands. “How about the right?” I invite, playfully. And surprise, surprise, they match too.

For years his hands grabbed ahold of the gears in a 180 Cessna airplane as he flew into African villages to transport individuals needing medical care. Africans called him Uwandji Omadjela. Chief Hawk.

Years later I placed my hands on a piano and learned to transport individuals into the universal language of music with similar intensity.

Even though you died many years ago, you are still with me, Dad. On this day, I say to you: “Kutshu la wulu, Uwandji Omadjela.” Go in strength, Chief Hawk.

And I can hear you say, “Kutshu kali la wulu.” Stay in strength, dear daughter.