Even as I type, I see my dad’s hands.

I like it. They are good hands.

They have seen work.

The scars have been earned.

They are hands that a boy who is worried about his masculinity can reflect on and feel a little less concerned. They don’t hide from future callouses inside gloves.

They reflect wisdom. They are not misshapen or deformed. The nails are not chewed short and stubby, there are no missing digits. They know their place. They have never seen a manicure, but they have never been broken either.

Their age is beginning to show but I don’t mind much. The fingers are just a little crooked. The skin seems just a little more worn; the veins a little more prominent.

Many, many days of sun. Many more of wind and rain, each etching a story on this canvas of flesh and bone.

The place wear she first slipped on that ring will never be the same. I bear her mark. I am delightfully branded.

The scars have been earned.

Oh, that I could see my soul with the same eyes.