You can pick my grandfather’s skin straight off the

scaffolding of his fingers like a piece of Kleenex. 

You can read tendons and veins like a road map 


to nowhere. His knuckles are parched reverse-oases no

amount of Vaseline can replenish, yet a few ruddy hairs

still grow there stubbornly. My mother once told me that


when you’re old you lose your fingerprints. I inspected his

finger-pads and they are baby-skin-smooth. Worn,

shiny like pebbles in a river, history’s friction.


Even his palms barely showcase those lines of love, life,

health, children. My grandfather’s hands are wide 

but gentle. What can contain him?


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