Los Manos De Mi Abuelo

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by ArmandoMarquez2415

by ArmandoMarquez2415

Los Manos De Mi Abuelo
The Hands of My Grandfather
By Armando Marquez
In Memory of Luciano Zamora

The hands of my grandfather, to me, they were wondrous things. A lifetime of stories lay in their palms and countless skills were held in his fingertips. The years of hard work his hands had done were visible in every crease and wrinkle. Years of exposure to the sun had left his hands tanned the darkest shade of brown imaginable. His palms were rough from being snagged on machinery or rubbing up against tools on a daily basis. They seemed almost too swollen and callused to even close completely.

Yet he could pull a tiny sliver from the tip of your finger and you wouldn’t even feel a thing. He could hold the back of your bike so gently that you would pedal alone and never realize when he had let go. A tiny fishhook would disappear between his oversize fingers, only to come back perfectly baited. It seemed as though there was nothing that those hands couldn't make or repair.

They could transform a simple piece of paper into a plane or bird in flight and help soar into the sky. They could make a pirate’s hat and help you sail the seven seas. They could be clasped tightly together to form a makeshift flute and, as he blows through them, playing the tunes of his childhood memory.

Stories that his father had told him long ago would come to life as he outlined the Aztec sun that shone on the ancient village of his ancestors. When his hands came together to form shadows on the wall, an eagle would magically appear to illustrate the story of how the flag of Mexico came to be.

As a child, I often held my hand up against his to see the vast difference in size and color. They seemed to exude strength and wisdom. And as I’d trace the lines in his palm, I could almost see his life’s history in every crease and callous. It’s as if they were a measure of all he had accomplished in life. Las Manos De Mi Abuelo. To me, they are beautiful.