Eight fingers, two thumbs. A right and a left, five and five. My sister’s short and stubby hands fly across the keyboard as the professor speaks, driven by the quest for knowledge. Oil stained and nimble, my brother’s hands twist a bolt on his bright blue bike. Kristine on the other hand, always has a perfect polish displayed on her tiny hands showing off her dazzling jewelry. My hands are dry and cold from a winter that has lasted too long, rough like sandpaper. Eight fingers, two thumbs. Right and left, five and five.

But my dad’s hands tell a story… Six fingers and two thumbs, they tell a story. Lost in accident, he’s learned to survive. His hands are cracked and beaten from a long day at work. Rough like the bristle of his beard--no amount of lotion would ever fix. Struggling to grasp small objects, he asks kindly for help. A dad, my dad, who passes on his stories.