Those Hands I knew as a boy

They gave me the gift of time, those hands. Turning over fossils, reading millennia like braille. Pointing out constellations and meteors. Slowly making smashed treasures whole again with painstaking stillness. I watched them as a boy, in awe of their size. Gripping the steering wheel, driving us to mountains. Oceans. Leathery. Big, turgid veins like…