Fathers hands

 It was his hands that made him feel old—once hard as steel, now a road map of wrinkles, etched with the story of a man who knew hard labor. As he remembered his father's hands, he hoped one day his son would notice his own.

In his younger days, his hands gripped axes, shovels, and hammers tightly. He used his hands to build his house with countless blisters and wood slivers that he never complained about. His hands held his children and his wife, who felt safe with him, and they sometimes slapped the table to get their attention.

His hands were tough and hardened, but his heart was soft as a cloud. He taught his children kindness and respect for their elders. He held onto their hands, walking down a country road, squeezing them just a little to let them know he'd never let go.

His hands, once young and now old, carved out a lifetime of memories with every swing of the axe or pounding of a nail. As he looks at them now, he wonders if every line was a single path he took, and if so, he'd traveled many miles as a hard-working man.

Once, blisters and callouses, now transparent skin with bulging veins and age spots are what he sees as he realizes time has taken his hands first.What's next, he wondered, but didn't really care.When his hands quit working, everything else would soon follow.

It was his hands that gave him purpose, knowing they could do anything he asked. They were an extension of his brain, like puppets he controlled that never let him down. I believe our hands define us, separating the hands of steel from the strokers of a keypad. The brick layer from the accountant, the heavy equipment operators from the salesman. Hands are the true test of time, and his have  still retained the ability to beat his grandson at a game of thumb war.

Mike 2026