Sunday, 3 July 2011

My father's hands

Sometimes I find I notice the oddest things, often when doing something else.  As I was editing a photograph for Stone Three, a section of the photo caught my attention.

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?


  1. Lovely, intimate observations! Hands have their own life stories as do faces!

  2. Nice post. I try to notice hands.

  3. Charlotte this is a beautiful post, indeed we were observing and appreciating similar experiences.

  4. I found this piece very touching. You have taken a part and told a story of your Father's life.

  5. I have my mother's hands ... and she now has my grandmother's
    lovely post
    thanks for sharing

  6. Beautiful post! A wonder to notice a parent's hands...I've got my Dad's. :) I'm so happy to have found your blog!