D
ad’s hands had so much potential. I always loved looking at them, tanned from all his time under the hot sun. They were never without cracks, always dried out, bumped up, and calloused from his enslavement to physical labor, burnt up from his reliance on the joint that he held between his fingers, oiled up from spending every day using, breaking, and fixing lawn equipment. Dad’s hands, they were perfect to me. They were hands that had lived, hands the spent their days working and their nights holding rolled papers or tin cans, occasionally floating through the air in sync with Dad’s voice, sometimes flying through the air, propelled by anger and in sync with dad’s reddened face. I especially loved them when dad would drive. On his best days, the steering wheel would become his drum set and his hands would drum along with the blaring music. I could watch him on those days forever, it seemed. Those few days were the best days with his hands. So much bigger than my tiny, unmarked, youthful ones, so much power; they had so much potential to offer me the protection and wisdom that I wanted him to give me, yearning for his hands every moment I spent with him.
Mark My Words
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