I can't help but stare at his hands. They moved me so much in his last days.When we thought we still had hope, he was wiping his brow and scratching his nose.
When he was finally released from the boxing mitts his hands were so skinny and chapped, his nails over grown, yet he did not want me to cut them. He was in so much pain. I blew on them to cool them, I put lotion on them with one finger and blew as I smoothed it ever so gently trying not to hurt him.
When he was in hospice his hands laid on his chest mostly not moving. There I took note of his forearm. Where did the skin go that made up the muscle of my strong father? His bone was so rectangular.
