It was his hands.

He had a carpenters hands. They could almost tell the story of his 94 years all at once. Every fold of rinkled skin was another chapter and every scar was a forgotten adventure. His skin was paper thin and irresistibly smooth. A neverending circut of pale blue vains detailed every inch.

His fingers were quite long, like those of a little kid who grew too fast. They were Bony and emacited to a point when it seemed as though it was nothing but skin, vains, and bone. However, they weren’t sickly or cold, they were acctually loving and warm.

His wrists and arms were a marvel of diverse scars and liver spots. Thin white hairs grew as though a small feild of grass on a deserted city. He had a special scar just below his left wrist, I loved that story the most.

What I would give to feel those hands with all there warmth and wisdom one last time.

It was always his hands.