My hand is a loyal soldier.
Now a little older and having lost the smoothness, and glow of youth, he will become reminiscent if allowed and tell you about the old wars.
He will tell you of the angry slaps and the violence. He will go on and on about the joys of touching the face of a new born baby, and the excitement of creeping up the thigh of a lovely maiden. He will tell you of the countless hours spent holding a cigarette or drink. He will tell you how he tossed dirt onto the casket of my brother, and explain to you that no matter how often you do that you really won't grow hair on your palms.
He will tell you about threats and grabbing someone by the throat and pushing them against the wall. He will go on and on about how his decedents carved stone and how he worked as an electrician. He will show you scar after scar and bore you with every single one.
If you listen long enough he will tell you how he has been ordered to steal, and heal, he may even tell you how sometimes he twitches in his sleep as if he has left a task uncompleted. About the only thing he won't comment on are the liver spots or moles? After all whats to say, they weren't there and then they were.
He has dreams that always have gone unfulfilled, he will never paint or sculpt, but he can drive about anything that has wheels.
Somethings make him proud and some things bring him shame.. but his honor lies in his unflinching obedience and unquestionable loyalty.
