These are my father's hands, they tell the story of his life. Through the slightly noduled knuckles and the risen veins; through the smoothness of the fingertips; the prints almost erased after years of handling chemicals without gloves. They are the hands of a photographer, gardener, friend of small children and adult alike. They are very precious hands; they held mine as a child and showed me the world, they picked me up when I fell over, wiping away tears; they have offered me love and support my whole life.
They are not only my father's hands, they are my grandfather's. I have never noticed that before. My grandad's hands were always brown from working outside, they were calloused from carrying coal bags, fruit boxes; from currying horses and handling tack. And yet my dad has his father's hands, the same shape, the same fingers, the same gestures.
I wonder if I have my father's hands?