My Dad's Hands
I was in the garage scraping up my fingers trying to fix my daughters scooter and thinking of my dad.
I was remembering his hands, big, grimy, rough and often cut and bleeding, busily disassembling and reassembling things on his workbench. I spent hours perched on a high stool listening to his amazingly creative profanity while I watched those hands fix everything from toasters to Buicks.
My dad’s tools are on my workbench now and they don’t seem to work as well for me as they did for him.
I got my blue eyes, blonde hair and big nose from my dad but unfortunately I didn't get his hands.