My Father's Hands

I remember the smell of turpentine from my Father's large and rough
cracked hands. I remember he built beds, cupboards and tables. All of
which, twenty-five years on, were no less sturdy than they were when he
wrought them fromheavy timber. He could do this, but couldn't thread a
needle.
I remember my Mother dragging wood splinters out of his
paint-splattered hands with tweezers after he had unsuccessfully tried
picking them out with a needle.
I remember his thick, black eyebrows and hair, speckled with tiny dots
of white. And that big, old blue jumper, how heavy it was.