He was standing on the beach letting the waves tickle his feet. His skin had turned the color of molasses from all the days he spent it the sun.
In the cinnamon heart heat he stood there staring at the horizon letting the salty breeze blow through his ginger hair.

I would recognize those hands anywhere.

His hands were big and strong, worn with years of building houses. Making homes for others but never finishing his own. His fingers covered with calluses from the times when he used to play guitar. They were the hands of a hard worker, the hands of a father.

His hands were never soft, always dry and cracked. For as long as I could remember they were as rough as sandpaper. Those hands were the ones that belonged to a loving father. The hands that brushed my hair when it was too hard for me to, the hands that turned the pages of the storybook as his voice read slowly and steadily, and the hands that strummed the guitar as he sang songs to help me sleep.

As I grew up, he left early and came home late. His guitar sat collecting dust in its case.

Reading glasses found a permanent place on his head. He no longer read the stories to me and no longer brushed my hair
He grew older and so did I

But his hands never changed just like his heart.