Track 77 — I Write the Songs

I remember writing a poem about six months after my brother and I had moved to Taiwan. I don’t know the words that were written, nor do I have a copy of the poem with which to refresh my aging memory; nevertheless, I do recall what the ode was about. My hands. I can also recollect why the poem was written. I had looked down at my hands one afternoon (Don’t ask me why.) and was stunned by what I saw. These were no longer the hands of the boy who had come to Taiwan a few months before. These were now the hands of a man. At some point during my first summer in the country, I had stepped away from the child that had always peered back at me from deep within gleaming mirrors and glossy photos. I had somehow transformed into the man that I was meant to become.

It was about time.

I was twenty-six years old after all. I had already finished both an undergrad and a law degree. I should have made the mental leap into manhood years before. You’d think. But, as with many things in my life, I was a bit slow to get things done. I know for certain that there is a story to be told explaining why it took so long for my self-perception to catch up to my years; however, that is for another time. Another post. Another revelation.

Or not.

As often as I have been writing recently, it is possible that I will never get around to hitting publish on that one. Then again, you never know. For now, however, I am quite content to just share a few words in dedication to the spark of man who helped me to realize that I was more than just a boy.

My dad.

His are the hands which held me when I needed to be held, carried me when I needed to be carried, and pushed me when I need to be pushed. His are the hands which led me through Beavers, Cubs and Scouts. They taught me to give, receive and more importantly to share. His are the hands which pushed record at every play, concert, or performance that I was ever in. They are also the hands that could be heard the loudest when the recording was done. His are the hands that built bunk-beds, toy tractors and go-karts for fun. They are also the hands that taught us how to play with his creations. Oh, how they loved to play. His are the hands that waved playfully in the air as he tried to convince me that he could fly. They moved with such childlike precision that I was sure he could. His are the hands that were never violent or full of spite. Instead they were always open, ready to embrace. His are the hands that I often reached for when in need. There was never a doubt that they would be there for help, support and guidance. His are the hands that picked me up when I was down and raised me even higher when I was up. They are the strongest I have ever known. His are the hands that have stayed locked within those of my mother, pampering, nurturing and loving. They do everything that a husband’s hands should do. His are the hands of a father, a friend and a husband. His are the hands of a man. His are the hands that I was finally starting to see as I looked down at my own

Ironically, it took me moving halfway around the earth to make this connection with my father. It was during my parents’ first visit to Taiwan as we were sitting at a restaurant counter eating teppanyaki when I first started to truly listen to what he had to say. It was the first time that I felt as though I was interacting with my father on an even level. It was the first time that I felt like a man.

And now, on his seventieth birthday (Actually his birthday was on April 26. As I said above, I am a bit slow to get things done.) I figured it was about time to thank my father for all that he has shown me, taught me, given me. His are the hands which I will continue to hold with love, pride and thanks. His are the hands which I hope to pass on to my own children as they continue to grow. His are the hands.

I Write the Songs, by Barry Manilow, is one of the many songs that has been with me for as long as I can remember. It has been on every playlist that my dad has ever made and it has been blasted in every car that he has ever driven. As much as I make fun of my father for his affinity towards Mr. Manilow, his songs bring with them the visions of my dad and more importantly, the warmth of his touch.

Happy birthday, Pops! I love ya!

I Write the Songs youtube link

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