Whose Story?

Recently a friend and I met for lunch. The conversation drifted to our childhoods. She shared that her daddy died when she was seven. I asked a few questions and the conversation moved on to other subjects. One detail stayed with me, though. His hands were scrubbed clean. She insisted they weren’t her daddy’s hands at all.

Visual Inspiration

That powerful image of a seven-year-old staring at her daddy’s hands in the hospital stuck with me. I slipped into the mind of a seven-year-old and committed the story to paper. But was it my story to tell?

Elizabeth Gilbert writes in Big Magic that stories live in the ether, waiting for the right person to pluck them from the air when inspiration strikes. I felt I had no choice when the image of unfamiliar hands on her daddy wouldn’t leave me. My friend’s recollection was the inspiration, I was merely the scribe.

Story Value

So, whose story is it? That’s the wrong question. We should be asking, is this story worth telling? If so, the writer has a responsibility to commit it to the page. A child coming to terms with of the loss of a parent is a compelling tale. The doubt, the sadness, the utter finality moves the reader. The inevitability of death gives the story value. The universal nature of losing a parent gives this story additional heft. A melancholy tone is layered in by the child’s reluctance to accept that hands scrubbed of Daddy’s daily work are, in fact, his.

Owning It

The powerful image of my friend as a seven-year-old trying to make sense of her daddy’s hands was a jumping off point. In trying to stay true to her grief, I drew on my own experience as a seven-year-old. The losses I suffered at that tender age were less profound: a newborn kitten, a parakeet. But I was able to tap into the mystery that death presents. What happens, where do souls go, can they hear me up in heaven?

Story is how we make sense of the world. I printed Daddy’s Hands and presented it to my dear friend. She replied by text, “Your words captured the story so beautifully. I would call you, but I can’t talk from the waterfall of tears.” Regardless of whose story it was, it was worth telling. I was honored to be the scribe.