Hands

The blue veins criss-crossed the backs of his hands like roadways on a topographic map, showing where his life had taken him. The opposite sides, calloused and strong like a vice, rivaled a grizzly bear’s. At least that’s what I imagined when I was young, looking at those hands, wondering if mine might ever look so scarred and weathered. Those were the hands of a hard man, a hard life. Mine rarely do anything more strenuous than striking the letters on a keyboard. His were gentle only when resting on my shoulder or giving my hair a tousle.