My dad’s hands


When I was little, I used to spend my summer holidays with mom and dad. They were not my parents, but my mother’s parents.

My dad is a carpenter. My mom is good.

He has seven fingers and she has wrinkled hands. A map seems to be carved upon them. Her hand has brownish spots, and my hand seems too thin and small into hers.

Sometimes, dad tells me stories and his hands become rabbits, foxes, fish, guns, disasters or hugs.

He told me once how his fingers from his left hand went away. He was using a wood cutting machine-which was more or less like a bread slicing machine. All of sudden, the face of my Mom appeared in front of his eyes and he discovered a smile on his face. A smile that ran away once with the three fingers.

His hand is weird! It casts bizarre shadows on the wall, but I like to hold it into mines. I sometimes cuddle the “leftover” of his thumb to see if it hurts him. He smiles.

Mom can do wonderful things with her hands: sandwiches, cakes, cookies, and hugs. My mom’s hands have knitted special gloves for my dad. The left hand’s glove has two fingers only. When I asked him why the glove was that way, he answered: “Cuz mommy loves me.”

Out of all the hands in the house, the hand with two fingers is the one I love the most!




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