Give me a pair that’s ragged and worn, filled to bursting with sinew and cracks in bone.
Show me the places where skin has cracked, then filled itself in. Each swing of a hammer, or knick of a knife. Tiny memories carved of living tissue. As hands build, they build themselves.
They grow, wrapping themselves in corded experience. Skin grows over splinters, and slivers of metal. Cementing themselves as a part of the hands themselves.
Hands of silk are fine for poetry and song, but in practice tear and run. Rough hands hold the beauty of memory in them, telling the story of someone’s life.
So again, give me that pair that’s been shaped and molded by life.