His Hands

His hands were the color of a salak fruit. Years of being torched by the sun had permanently changed his coloring. Working with his hands by painting, sand blasting, working with chemicals, welding steel, making shrimping and casting nets, and repairing cars had taken a toll on his hands. They were weathered, beaten, boney.

Despite the trauma his hands had been through, they still could show love. They embraced, healed, helped. Even as they stiffened in the later years, his hands stayed nimble enough and he kept them moisturized with lotion to prevent them from drying out. The last time I saw his hands, they were dry and pale in comparison to how they were, but the years of love still showed without any wear.