I do not really need a photo at all to recall him.
I can easily close my eyes and imagine that familiar oval stain between his first and second fingers, for example. Pall Malls made it…a nicotine stain from a lifetime of holding a cigarette elegantly. Nicotine. I had not thought of that word in years. But I have thought of his hands.
His hands mattered to me.
At night when I was afraid to go to sleep, he would sit at the desk with the lamp on and write in a small notebook with a fountain pen. It was soothing to see him sitting there, his back to me, profile slightly revealed, silently in the dim cone of light, his hand moving slowly across the page, waiting for sleep to settle on me. I never knew what he wrote down in that notebook. Years later my sister told me that he would copy passages out of books that he liked. Just copy them word for word. It seemed an odd thing to do but maybe it makes perfect sense. Why not write down what has already been written, if you like it? Better than creating new sentences you do not like. Tell me about it. Still, I always wondered what parts of which books he liked well enough to copy.
If I was still up when he was ready to leave, he would come over to the bed and put his hand on my forehead. A strong hand it was, but soft too. The skin thick and warm. Gently he would move his hand down over my eyes to close them and somehow that would work. The next thing I knew the there were sounds of morning in the apartment and the sun was in the window.
I often imagine those hands now when I struggle to sleep.
The notebook made sense for him because, as I recall, he was a neat man, an orderly man, a man of practices. I got that from him. I used to watch him get dressed in the morning like a ritual, always the same. The boxer shorts, the undershirt, then the socks and garters, then the shoes laced firmly with those hands. Then trousers and shirt, cufflinks and tie. Gold tie tack, the gold key chain attached to the belt loop, the gold lighter into his pocket.
His hair by then was a straw-colored tint and slicked back with Bandoline. Bandoline, another relic from another time. It was the brand name of a jar of hair tonic with the consistency of gooey goo. He made a perfect part then combed the hair back over and over until it was right. His hair was stiff to the touch but neat as a painting.
On the subway when I was really little, he would lift me higher and higher to the very top of one of the poles. I would hold him around the neck until I could touch the ceiling. Then I would let go of him, reach out and get a firm grip on the pole with my arms and legs. When I was ready he would let go and down I would slide like a fireman. Down to the bottom where he would gather me up, then lift me again. His arms were strong around me, his hands firm. They pressed in but did not hurt. He was a gentle man and only one time threatened to smack me. He never did actually and I knew he never would. But even the thought alone hurt because I knew he must have been really mad to suggest it.
One time, on a family trip to the Adirondacks, he got his finger caught in the car door when someone slammed it. He actually cried which was shocking to us all. And I cried too. Not just for him but because those hands mattered so much. Would this change things? Would they feel differently? Would there be a bump when he put me to sleep? He died soon after that, before I could notice a difference.
I look at my hands sometimes and wonder if they are like his. Not in the skin and bone but in the touch, the pressing and the letting go. The gentle firmness. Probably not. I suspect that these are just my hands and that they will simply have to do.
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