His Hands
The man was taller than I would have given him credit for. So tall, in fact, that I could see nothing of his face, which entered the clouds. And beyond presumably.
No, I can’t say whether he was a pale, wrinkled, wise dude with long, flowing white hair and beard, or some dude with meth teeth and a hat screaming “Make America Great Again”. What I could see were his enormous hands, which he moved dramatically as he talked, as if it were expected of him.
Hopefully he understood that I personally didn’t expect anything of him. Hell, I certainly didn’t expect to meet him.
His palms were old, that was certain. But, they were also young, which made me less certain. The wrinkles on them ran like rivers, deep and pink, like the grand canyon illuminated by a ripe, rising sun. The wrinkles alone told stories, and the words that seemed to crawl on them were often distracting while he was talking, to the point that several times he had to call me back to attention.
Like I said though, they were young too. A few times I thought they may have been the hands of his son, when he was still alive (was he dead?). Sometimes, the centers of his palms seemed unnaturally red, and glinted in the sun with the sparkle of spilled juice. Even when they seemed young they were still the hands of a worker, whether that work was providing salvation, or smiting folks, or making me disappointingly just barely too late for Wendy’s breakfast.
The way he moved his hands was the most distracting thing. He would stick fingers up as he counted off something I wasn’t listening to, or would point strictly at something in the distance. At one point, he handed me a piece of rock with writing on it, and seemed to almost pose as he did, throwing the other hand behind him as if paparazzi might crowd around any minute, or some dude might make a really quick painting. The point was, they were always moving, and it was awkward, their sheer size creating a wind that made my eyes water as he swung them to and fro.
Finally, when he was finished talking, his hands fell to his side. They seemed to ache to get back to work, as they shifted from old to young. He said one last thing, and was gone as quick as he had appeared.
Thoughtfully, I looked down at my own limp hands.
I guess they looked sorta like his.
No, I can’t say whether he was a pale, wrinkled, wise dude with long, flowing white hair and beard, or some dude with meth teeth and a hat screaming “Make America Great Again”. What I could see were his enormous hands, which he moved dramatically as he talked, as if it were expected of him.
Hopefully he understood that I personally didn’t expect anything of him. Hell, I certainly didn’t expect to meet him.
His palms were old, that was certain. But, they were also young, which made me less certain. The wrinkles on them ran like rivers, deep and pink, like the grand canyon illuminated by a ripe, rising sun. The wrinkles alone told stories, and the words that seemed to crawl on them were often distracting while he was talking, to the point that several times he had to call me back to attention.
Like I said though, they were young too. A few times I thought they may have been the hands of his son, when he was still alive (was he dead?). Sometimes, the centers of his palms seemed unnaturally red, and glinted in the sun with the sparkle of spilled juice. Even when they seemed young they were still the hands of a worker, whether that work was providing salvation, or smiting folks, or making me disappointingly just barely too late for Wendy’s breakfast.
The way he moved his hands was the most distracting thing. He would stick fingers up as he counted off something I wasn’t listening to, or would point strictly at something in the distance. At one point, he handed me a piece of rock with writing on it, and seemed to almost pose as he did, throwing the other hand behind him as if paparazzi might crowd around any minute, or some dude might make a really quick painting. The point was, they were always moving, and it was awkward, their sheer size creating a wind that made my eyes water as he swung them to and fro.
Finally, when he was finished talking, his hands fell to his side. They seemed to ache to get back to work, as they shifted from old to young. He said one last thing, and was gone as quick as he had appeared.
Thoughtfully, I looked down at my own limp hands.
I guess they looked sorta like his.
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