Those hands

     

     He looked at his hands remembering each scar and knotted fingers. He could feel the pain all over again as he relived the roads to who he is now. Small towns offering nothing but hard labor, endless days of working in the fields, mines, and sawmills, anything to make a dollar or earn a meal. He learned to do many things with his hands some that stayed with him and he became a master of many trades that he would pass along to other young men just trying to survive. Life was hard back then, but it was all he knew so to him it meant just one thing, working hard was his pathway to make something out of himself. Time passed, and the scars faded, the blisters now rock hard callouses that he sometimes scraped at with his pocket knife. The veins in his hands stuck out like roadmaps of where he had been, his nails short and now dirt free. A single tear fell from his furrowed brow knowing those hands that could raise buildings, or build bridges were now just the hands of an old man who needs them both to hold a cup of coffee.

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