Beautiful Things Broken.

My hands were once
beautiful things.

They looked strong.
My hand shake was firm.
But my hands were soft,
beautiful things.

They were the hands,
when run down a woman's bare back,
elicited the response,
"Ah", or "Umm"
My hands were soft,
beautiful things.

A famous friend,
over cheap red wine and smokes,
once spent an evening examining my hands.
She placed her hands against mine.
She compared size,
she compared shape,
she wove her fingers in and over them.
"I love these hands,
protect them."
And then she placed them
delicately against her face,
until the heat rising off of my hands
warmed her soul.
I am certain,
she swooned.

My hands now,
are beaten and broken things.
The index finger
of my right hand
is broken at the knuckle.
It has been this way for three months.
Just when it is almost healed,
It breaks again
under the strain of my labor.

My hands,
over the past ten years
have been shattered,
slashed,
twisted,
crushed,
aged,
toughened.

My hands,
today,
if run down a woman's back
elicit the response,
"Oh" or, "Mmmm", and sometimes, "Ouch!"
Jagged callouses
carve tiny lines
and plow nerves like earth.

My hands are no longer soft.
But they are strong,
powerful, imperfect things.
Hard work
has given them character;
A road map of scars
and thick, tough skin.

And it is all because I build things.
Building comes at a cost.
My hands have suffered.
They were once beautiful things.
But damn the beauty.
These hands have brought me peace.
At the end of each day,
there is something tangible,
that I can lay these broken hands upon;
and feel,
beneath the callouses and scars.
These hands have created and built.
And I am okay with this.

My famous friend
might hate these hands today.
But I know better.
She would love their touch even more.
Now,
these hands
have history,
a road map of callouses
and scars.

These hands have a story,
to finally back their strength.