People say you can tell alot about a person by just looking at their hands. My mother's hands are smooth like silk, like the water of a lake at dusk. Her hands are careful and gentle, loving and kind.  My brothers hands are pale. The sun wishes to glimmer down on their frail shell. His hands are tough, tolerant.  My hands are long and thin. Blistered from long hours of basketball. My hands are quick and creative, able to catch anything thrown their way. No one's hands are equivalent to my father’s hands, however.
His hands are rough, rocky, ridged; like the side of a mountain; like the edge of a sharp piece of glass. His hands show off countless years of work and dedication. His fingernails are torn and blackened. Blackened like the sky on a cloudless night. His wrists are hairy. His palms are patchy and exposed. They smell like oil and gas. Like the underside of a truck. You can feel his power in his handshake. You can feel his strength in his handshake. His hands always know what to do and how to do it. They will always be right even when they’re wrong and they will always provide safety in dark times. My father's hands are the hands of a true man….