Hands
My father’s birthday – it was mid November?
I never remember birthdays. I looked at his hands
as they swallowed the gift which I did not give.
His knuckles were mounds of meat
buried deep beneath the thick skin that covered over his hands like hide.
I wondered how a hand that large could ever hold a face?
Gray hairs, like wires, and snares bristled the backs of his hands.
The backs of his hands.
Some of my fondest memories still stick in those snares.
I wonder, how many legs have I chewed through over the years?
