If it's true that the eyes are the keeper of the window to the soul...my father's hands were the keeper of that window's view.
This is a story of the love between a father and daughter that can't last in its original pure state. As the grown-up daughter now sits at her father's bedside in his final hours, she becomes fixated upon his hands and how they have come to represent all of who he was, as a man and as a father.
This is a story of the love between a father and daughter that can't last in its original pure state. As the grown-up daughter now sits at her father's bedside in his final hours, she becomes fixated upon his hands and how they have come to represent all of who he was, as a man and as a father.