Hands

I always liked my hands the best
because they were the indicators
As a boy, they were always clean
Small and soft, and Mom might say,
'You've such beautiful hands, son'
I don't know the day that changed
Maybe it started with the fighting,
when I was confused and angry
Fresh back from the worst days
My knuckles bore the brunt of that,
always cracking apart and bloody
Opening, and re-opening after,
until only scar tissue was left
They were still a boy's hands,
no doubt about that, to be honest
At the time I didn't think so
Then one day my dad mentioned,
'Every man ought to have calluses,'
and I always wanted them after that,
but I didn't care to earn them
until a year or so past
Lord only knows, now,
how much they mean to me
I can't give 'em up