Dad's hands
Memories are slippery things. Like sand through hands. They disappear. Sneak off to someplace else. Only a few stick. Which go, which stay. I don’t get a say. With you, it’s your hands I remember most. Your hands. Biggest I’ve seen. With a scar left by a metal cleat, a brand from your grueling days pushing and passing over Boardman High School’s tired grass and chalked yard lines. Calloused finger tips from years of melodic collisions with guitar strings. A bruised thumbnail,
