Gashed, Burn, and Loved

  
They were rough with deep gashes and hard looking burns from the shrink-wrap machine. They caught on smooth surfaces like sandpaper against pantyhose. I didn't want mine to be like his. I wanted dainty as if they had never seen the sun or manual labor. I was better than his. Or at least I wanted to be.,

Mine aren't dainty, but their not as rough as his. They've done and see a lot; manual labor is low on that list. Their soft smoothness is gone replaced by a chafing dryness. I love them and I would be lost without them; left wandering a landscape void of shape, color, depth, life. They create.

He no longer burns them on the shrink-wrap machine. His 50 plus body and quick temper at authority pushed him out. He's happier. They're happier. They love the motion of the back and forth mopping. The love the familiarity of manual labor. It is etched deep within his hands.

I watch mine scribe across a blank page and I see the lines of black ink and penmanship etch memories and stories. He gave me that gift with each gash, burn, and scar. I am forever indebted to labor and love.

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