They lay in his lap at the end of the day, strong still , even after ten hours of working with hot metal, and heavy wood. The fine lines are stained indelibly now with the grease from the axles of the trailers he manufactures. Fine steel pieces of art to carry gleaming boats out into the water . His hands are fine pieces of art too. Muscles wrapped so tightly around the joints, joints so large that when he holds my hand, I feel like a tiny fairy princess. Hands that allow him to hold a hot piece of metal without flinching , and yet still hold a newborn baby as if it were a treasure untold. These gnarled , knitted sculptures have held back my hair while I was sick , caressed my face when I lay close to death in the hospital, cooked me meals, and bathed me when I was unable to bathe myself. I’ve seen those beautiful hands build a building from the ground to the roof, and at the end of the day , turn the pages on a thick cardboard book to read for the baby. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. Perhaps they are not the manicured hands of a Wall Street economist, or a million dollar lawyer. The nails are thick and bent. But , I would not trade this pair of hands , or this man; for all the perfectly filed , and filled nails, carefully lotioned and trimmed hands in the world. They are his, and they are beautiful.