The Man and the Boy

He looked up at The Man discerningly, but then confidence in his curiosity faltered, and he looked back down at his little hands. The Man's hands were calloused and rough, they could never be cleaned of all the work The Boy thought. The creases and cracks had seemed to hold the same dirt they had when he had looked at them sitting in The Man's lap what felt to him to be a lifetime ago. It nearly was a lifetime ago. The hands were connected to heavy wrists connected to burly, sinewy fore arms connected to biceps as big as the trees he would run through and play in; the skin was soaked with the stain of sun. The Man had hands that had worked since forever ago. They would split wood and move earth, build fires and anything else that needed building. These hands would change any part of the world they touched. They would also lift him up into his arms and hold his own hands. His own hands looked so small.

His own hands were soft and pathetic.

The Man smiled a warm smile as he looked at The Boy. The Boy had forever swimming in his eyes and The Man felt his heart swell so much it might burst sometimes when he would peer into those beaming windows; inquisitive and spilling an intelligence beyond their years. Beauty could wrap itself in the innocence and wonder of The Boy’s face and time would have to relent; they would dance this paradox into infinity. The Man thinks of The Boy's uncertainty in whatever question had lit upon his curious mind and takes his hand. It was a good hand. It was soft and clean. The Man knew that these hands would change any part of the world they touched. He looked at his own hands so changed by the world then he looked back at The Boy’s face.