Fathers and sons share many things. Their hands tell a story that is oddly similar.

When I was very young I wanted hands like my fathers. Scarred, blue-veined, sunburned claws. Coffee, alcohol and many cigarettes Had left their marks. Some marks told stories that I would ask him to repeat over and over again. When he was drying out, we would drive around As he drank black coffee by the gallon. With a Stanley stainless steel thermos between my legs I would pour him a cup And ask him to tell me again About his hands. What had happened to them? When? Where? How old were you at the time? He would stare straight ahead, light another cigarette, drink some coffee, And tell me the stories again. As if I had never heard them And he had never told them before. All this happened In one summer or one year. I was 18. The same age as my son is now. My son doesn’t ask about my hands. Because he already knows. I’ve told him the stories, he knows them all by heart. He laughs, humoring me, letting me tell them again and again. We love without speaking, Yet I speak and he listens.