I was thinking today that this is the first Father's Day ever for me, that my father is not around. He died last January. This picture is a close up section of one of the last photos I took of him. He has his hand around my mom. I am thinking his fingers look frail and thin and boney. He had strong hands for many years. They sculpted birds and animals and children and women in wax and then bronze, and copper and polyester resin and wood. And those same hands among many other things, fixed appliances, moved furniture, painted portraits as well as house and gallery walls. They drew cartoon characters and built me numerous kites, boats and model airplanes. His hands were a source of creative output. His heart was good. His words were funny and clever and encouraging. All of this is now in the past. I miss him.