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My hand is hairy.
When I was a young boy, my hand was smooth.
I had soft hands
Hands that didn't do much hard work
Hands with weak wrists
that had trouble with pages and pages of homework in longhand.
My hand cramped up writing thank you after thank you after my Bar Mitzvah
shooting pain that nearly made me cry
and I kept writing them nightly until I was done. It was the cruelest homework.
My hands are much bigger now, though still not strong the way I would like.
I type on a keyboard, which is much easier on my hands
but playing guitar hurts.
I can see the scars on my hands
the scars of living at least a little
Two from my hand through a window because I wasn't paying attention, on the last day of school of the year
One from a small Exacto blade, because it was the wrong tool for the job of cutting open a CD case from a record store
One from my hand going through another window
You'd think I would have learned the first time, but that fly was too annoying.
I am used to my hands, but they have changed through the years.
But now, when I look at my sons hands
with that soft skin
those perfect little nails
smooth and unblemished
ignore that dirt underneath them, if you please
I see my hands from my childhood.
And then I look at my hands
which have carried children, safe and sound
read books, though not recently enough
hit in anger, fortunately not recently at all
massaged away pain
caressed in passion
cooked
cleaned
played music
played ball
held swords
held other hands
and I know my hands were once like his.
Small, and smooth, and inexperienced, and eager to learn.
Like all other things my hands have changed.
His hands will change too
and I wonder how they will change.
Will they be as foolish as mine?
Will they be wiser?
Only time will tell, not my imaginings.
and as I place my hairy hand upon his smooth one
I whisper, "Goodnight, and sweet dreams."
When I was a young boy, my hand was smooth.
I had soft hands
Hands that didn't do much hard work
Hands with weak wrists
that had trouble with pages and pages of homework in longhand.
My hand cramped up writing thank you after thank you after my Bar Mitzvah
shooting pain that nearly made me cry
and I kept writing them nightly until I was done. It was the cruelest homework.
My hands are much bigger now, though still not strong the way I would like.
I type on a keyboard, which is much easier on my hands
but playing guitar hurts.
I can see the scars on my hands
the scars of living at least a little
Two from my hand through a window because I wasn't paying attention, on the last day of school of the year
One from a small Exacto blade, because it was the wrong tool for the job of cutting open a CD case from a record store
One from my hand going through another window
You'd think I would have learned the first time, but that fly was too annoying.
I am used to my hands, but they have changed through the years.
But now, when I look at my sons hands
with that soft skin
those perfect little nails
smooth and unblemished
ignore that dirt underneath them, if you please
I see my hands from my childhood.
And then I look at my hands
which have carried children, safe and sound
read books, though not recently enough
hit in anger, fortunately not recently at all
massaged away pain
caressed in passion
cooked
cleaned
played music
played ball
held swords
held other hands
and I know my hands were once like his.
Small, and smooth, and inexperienced, and eager to learn.
Like all other things my hands have changed.
His hands will change too
and I wonder how they will change.
Will they be as foolish as mine?
Will they be wiser?
Only time will tell, not my imaginings.
and as I place my hairy hand upon his smooth one
I whisper, "Goodnight, and sweet dreams."
