They were once big hands still strong with calluses
from the sifting of rocks, earth and wood.
They would guide me down the places I could not reach
and hold me when I was frightened of the lightening.
They were quiet hands,
never made a sound.
Kind hands from a man standing in the corner,
watching his son explore the world around,
quick to grip the boy from tripping.
They were throwing hands that grew pineapples, cherries and pumpkins.
They were funny hands dancing across the table to make me smile.
They are cold hands,