My grandpa’s hands are unique; they are tough like the man he taught me to be. His hands are wrinkly, like the skin on an elephants back. His hands are cold an ice cube to touch. His hands are tough, like the hands of a blacksmith after a hard day at work. His hands are wise and know all things. His hands tell stories old and new. His hand played football in days of old. Covered in blood, sweat, and dirt.
My hand’s are weak. My hands are young and immature.  My hands are soft and mild, like the hair on a kitten. My hands are clean, not a stain of dirt or grime. My hands dribble the basketball up and down. They show finesse when a steady hand is needed. They smell fresh and new, like an air dried towel. As I live and learn each and every day, my grandpa’s hands will give me strength to be the man I was raised to be.