These hands held mine.
My father's hands lived 88 years. They danced, they threw footballs and baseballs, they lifted weights, they canoed, they gardened, they drafted, they invented the wall saw, they married, they held three daughters and three grandsons, they held the newspaper every day, and turned page after page of the National Geographic every month, they cooked and did laundry, they drove, and they held mine.
My father's hands were always busy. Even when he sat still he would twiddle his thumbs.
In the hospital, I kept telling my dad he could rest. At one point he said "tired of resting". I laughed and then he laughed. So now I say, "move in peace".