Hands of My Father
Some say eyes are the gateway to the soul. I think it’s in the hands. I was just a girl, perhaps seven or eight, when I stumbled on this belief. I’d look at my dad’s hands, and be struck by a detail as though it held the key that turned all the locks in life. They were big hands with square fingernails. Strong hands with knobby knuckles and a slightly crooked thumb. Tanned, attached to sinewy Popeye forearms. Impressed upon them, it seemed, were the deeds and intentions of his life.
