MY HANDS

My hands, are beginning to weather a bit alright ! If only they could talk, about the places visited the things done, I'll bet they’d have plenty to say . Yeah, they'd brag a little too ! They would probably tell you about when they were young: how they could snatch a baseball from the air or off the ground and make it look easy. They’d speak of all the musical instruments they’ve played: The drums that nearly drove Mom and Pop insane, The accordian that never really sounded quite right, The screeching trumpet that sounded like a owl in the night, The the guitar they played for thirty-five years . They would probably be a little ashamed to tell how the twisted fingernail had once been bitten off by an inmate caught stealing cigarettes or how the scar on the right palm was left by an angry police dog. No, more likely they’d share with you about the joy they felt being the first to hold their daughter when she came into this world and how they proudly held her up so her mother could see her too! They'd describe the wood carvings made, homes built and beautiful bodies caressed. Countless stories indeed. After all, it’s been more than a half century now and they’re sore and stiff more than not. Now, when setting to a task, they move with experience and care, with a gentle kindness developed over the years past. So, maybe the eyes are not the only windows to the soul.


RON BERNARD 8/31/2004