My father's hands

Sometimes I look down at my hands
and see my father's hands instead,
almost as big, a little bit darker, 
from my mother's side, 
his just the same.

He's been gone, two years now, later
this week. I can't say it's gotten any
easier, but at least now the open
sores and blisters have grown 

into scars and callouses.

My hands will never be that big,
nor able to hold so much.

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