sting

He looks down at his hand,

down at his father,

down at his hands,

shuffles papers,

winces at the sting.

He remembers being young,

being tiny, being lifted.

He hated when his father held him,

preferred the softness

of his mother's embrace to the

callouses, the creases,

all lines and angles

and alcohol, smoke,

and grease.

Papa was a mechanic,

always came home smelling like work,

stains and smears and bruises and burns,

but barely a scrape, rarely a scratch,

and never a cut.

He had strong hands;

he was a strong man,

but a soft one.

Never an unkind word,

rarely a frown. He was hard,

but warm,

with a smile that was ever-present

and always unassuming.

He sighs, lays his hands against his father's.

The cut on his palm hums

at the cold.

"He was my hero..."