Let Go

He had always been a man’s man. Tough. Strong. You can tell by looking at his hands. They were thick, rough and hardened from years of outside work. Those hands had seen hammer to nail, bullet to gun, and rod to child, feed to beast, years of struggle.
Even on his deathbed at 86, James’ hands told a story. They showed his personality, always independent. He cut grass to stay in shape, which helped him stay well oiled.
Out to his last days, James wanted no one to cry over him, or to look with pity. At 86, he’d seen a many of things. His mom and dad went to glory. Friends gone. He’d already accepted his fate. He would go out like a solider. No help wanted.
Once a proud service man, he used to tell the little ones tales of his battle days. During that time he’d traveled around the world.
“I flew out from New York and (a few months later) flew into California,” he said. “I traveled by boat, train and plane.”
He’d come back home to the deep bayous to raise a full house. Generations came and went. Though educated to a mere secondary level himself, he was a master in sending several to school to get degrees. He pulled baby teeth. He taught the children how to ride bikes. He taught them how to sit at the dinner table. He did everything a man was supposed to do. So he’d almost ran his course. The family was grateful.
One day his only son came to see about him. The son held his father’s hand. He recited a strong, short prayer. Then son just continued to hold his father’s hand. If just to feel his warmth. But dad’s grip weakened. He struggled. Dad called. “Reggie,” he mustered. “Yes Daddy,” Reggie answered. Son leaned in close. The man’s voice wouldn’t carry far. A minute passed. His hands falling limp in his son’s grip. Down on his bed, unable to move anymore the old man took heavy breaths. He needed his son close. Son still gripped his hand. Dad gathered all his strength, and yet still weakly led his son’s ear to his mouth. Dad voiced (to his only son).
“Let. …Go. …My. …Hand.”


…After all he’s still a man.

In memory of my Uncle James.