My Grandfather's Hands Anonymous

My grandfather’s hands hardly appeared photogenic. They were red, cracked, and rough, and they often bore cuts and scratches from whatever mechanical object he had last worked on. I knew those hands from an early age. They used to slap my back as soon I stepped out of the minivan and onto his driveway. I never cringed, and I never had to look to see who was the perpetrator. “Hey there, troublemaker! I hear you’re failin’ all your classes!” he would say. I would flash him a wide grin, missing ‘theeth’ and all, and allow him to wrap me in a bear hug, fully smothered by his 6’2” frame and the overpowering scent of Old Spice. My grandmother would stand by the door sending a disapproving look his way. Though she hated my grandfather’s teasing, I knew it was his subtle (and only) way of praising my accomplishments.

My grandfather was, after all, a subtle man. He didn’t need words to express his feelings about something (with the exception of his teasing and his all-too-frequent jokes at the dinner table, which my family secretly thought were hilarious). Rather, it was through his actions that I could tell that he truly loved my family. Whenever my grandmother and I played flute and piano together in the front room of their house, he...