My Grandfather's Hands

I remember my grandfather’s hands. Even now I can see them, large and rough hewn. Scars and calluses from years of hard labor. I remember how small my hand felt in his when we would walk in the meadow. He particularly liked the early evening when the shadows began to lengthen and the stars began to wink hello to evening. We would stop at the rise of the hill just as the sun dipped below the horizon and he would sigh. His beard, gray for as long as I knew him, would lift slightly in the breeze. “Listen,” he would speak softly. “God is saying good night to all His children.”
My grandfather’s hands were the hands of a carpenter, a man who toiled daily to create something out of a piece of wood. It always amazed me to see those huge fingers move nimbly. My grandfather’s hands made me feel safe.
At night we would sit and he would tell me stories of long ago, faraway places. I touched the deep scars on his palms and asked him how they got there. He would shake his head and say it was a long time ago in another life. Sometimes he would tell me they came because people didn’t understand. I didn’t understand THAT.
I remember my grandfather’s hands and I should have realized then what I know now. The secret was there all the time.