these hands
I consider my hands, cuticles a bit rough and nails trimmed as closely as possible. A few of my finger tips are often split from neglecting needed care. Scars adorn the landscape from the careless use of kitchen knives, hot slag landing badly for painfully brief visits, liquid nitrogen applied, and the over zealous fondling of Elizabeth's front right brake caliper. When I play with one of my four wheeled toys, the black finds its way into the whorls and minute crevices of my hands where it squats for days. I scrub them as clean as possible with brush and abrasive, but with little success. Still, my hands manage to knead bread, grind curries, craft code, shape clay, form metal, build shelter, repair toys, and comfort loved ones.
For a time, a couple of decades back, they bothered me fiercely, these invasions of my skin, stubborn in their stays. I've grown to appreciate if not actually like these artifacts of labor and process; but, I wonder what Cole will think about his father's hands.