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Running on Jewish Time

Thursday, June 02, 2005

My Grandfather's Hands

Palm to palm, my grandfather's hands dwarf mine. They are men's hands,rough from winters spent peddling papers as a child and handling rope
and machinery as a man. Brown and weathered from years in the navy, they scratch my skin whenever we touch.

My pale soft hands, never scrapped ice off of cart wheels or scrubbed thick black machine oil from under my short neat white nails.

So I sit next to him and tell about college and friends and ideas, as he smiles and chuckles at me and pets me on the shoulder whenever I am particularly, well, particulary myself. and I tell to wait, just wait,
until my hands are weathered just like his and then see how much I will
have done.


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