He wipes his eyes and opens his hands. They are big hands, the kind that have worked for a living to ensure the arms that they are elegantly attached to don't fall off, wither. The knuckles look like a boxers' knuckles, exposed and bulging, yellowish white at their peak. Each finger is thicker than the last. How he fits those things in a pair of gloves, I will never know. Those hands have done a lot over the 70 or so years, hanging on to dirt bikes, fixing teeth, tightening bolts, mixing concrete. They aren't bakers hands though, not very well moisturized, but gentle enough when the time comes for hugs. When he stands, thinking about the next move on building something, or, when at the lumber yard, when we are debating what kind of wood to buy, they hang down by his hips and his fingers move slightly, almost like he is trying to flick something off his finger tips. It is a tick. I am not sure if anyone has ever noticed it before, especially not him, but I have and it is the thing I will remember always. I find myself doing it sometimes too, trying to channel the knowledge base that is programmed in that big head of his.

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