My Father’s Handsby Wian van den Berg / Illustration by Sasan / 17.12.2013
My father’s hands were once like mine, a child’s, as soft as the earth squeezing through his fingertips, capturing the colours of his unbound imagination.
In the morning when the horizon burst, they cut through seeded spear tips and discovered a forgotten field sown with an intangible truth.
Later, as the sun fell west, they clenched a pair of donga sticks in hope of victory, covered in dust.
They threw punches in the ring and books at the court room and yet as the sky continued to rumble; they held his mother and sheltered the rain which stunk the afternoon of iron.
Shackled and bruised, they wrote freedom underneath a flickering light and pointed the truth, the world had misread; freedom is to nurse a thorn from an enemy’s side.
My father’s hands are once more like mine, a child’s, as soft as the earth squeezing through my fingertips, as I hope to capture the colours of his unbound imagination.