Outside in the sunshine I squint.
I think of Grandpa Gallery when I squint.
He would watch me play when I was a kid, he’d squint and look omnipotent. Then he set his right hand down on the seat when he drove. His muscular hand was used to shifting, but his new Plymouth had the push button transmission, so he laid his hand on the seat between us and drove with his left hand.
When I handle tools I think of my mom’s father. Grandpa Gallery tinkered in his basement or out in his garage--building wooden toys or working on cars. Even though his fingers seemed big, his dexterity was impressive. He fit those hands into the depths of an engine to tighten a hard to reach bolt like he was tieing my shoelace or lighting his pipe.
My hands are beginning to look like Grandpa Gallery’s--rough and
stained with ink.