My old man's hands

My old man's hands were thick and wide and attached by axe handle forearms chiseled from a life time of  work with hammer, screwdriver and knife. The sun and wind had baked and cracked the skin to an old, used, uncared leathery tone. But they did not feel soft to the touch as old leather. No, they were rough and dry, with old scars and fresh wounds intertwined and invoking stories of rough living and mistakes made through carelessness, but mostly through necessity. His hands were hard. But he was not a hard man. He was a man who lived in the real world, taking what it offered and making what his family needed. I envied my old mans path the older I became. So clear and unwavering his way seemed to me. But my hands are not that hard. And I am not that strong.