Hands

I noticed my father's hands yesterday, and held one.  At ninety-three his hands are slender, stiff.  Their skin thin, like parchment, his blood pooled just below making his hands appear bruised.  They are soft hands, rarely used now.  In my childhood, they were clean hands.  As a pharmacist my father rarely did any work that would make his hands dirty.  Before they were the hands of a pilot that flew corsairs in the Pacific theater, a subject rarely discussed, a time he is not particularly proud of what he was required to do.

My mother's hands are beaten and battered, still showing signs of their strength.  They are bent with arthritic knuckles.  These hands raised and played with children.  These hands build rock walls and patios, planted and still plant flowers in her garden.  They have cook and cleaned for years.  They have changed diapers, and cared for a daughter who died from lung cancer.  They are hands that tell the story of this mother's life.

With my hands, I work a relative clean job requiring mostly typing.  I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.  I tend to get paint or ink all over them when I do something creative beyond typing.  My life has not included the raising of children, unless you consider playing with a niece, nephew or one of my dogs.  I did notice yesterday a bump on my index finger knuckle, may be the start of arthritis.