Saturday, January 24, 2009

My Father's Hands...

People's hands tell a story about what kind of lives they've lived. Are they smooth and unblemished like the hands of a banker? Or are the calloused and ragged looking like the hands of laborer?

For me, when I look at my father's hands, the story they tell me is that he's a tinkerer, a craftsman, builder of boats and go-karts for his children.

I can tell when he is in deep thought when he twiddles his thumbs - it helps with the thinking process. I also know when he's fully relaxed and content - he sits with his hands clasp and out front. I know he's fully present in the moment and ready to have one of those long meandering conversations that we like to have.

It drives me crazy when he picks and scratches at the skin graft that was the result of skin cancer. I'm always yelling at him "Quit Picking!!" It stops him for a nano second and then he's back to picking and scratching. I'll wait a few minutes before I tell him to "Stop Picking". Yes, I'm bossy but he's stubborn.

We both have the same sausage shaped fingers.

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