Hands
You can tell a lot about someone simply by looking at their hands. I can recall a time, several years ago, when my hands were worn, cracked, and dry from pulling steel wrenches while lying under school buses eight hours a day. I still have a scar on my left hand from helping my dad load some scrap tin onto a ladder rack and having it slice my palm open. There is a bit of a calloused groove worn into the top joint of the middle finger on my right hand from years of note taking and figuring middle school math problems. Embarrassingly, there is a tiny scar on my right thumb from being shot through by a BB gun. There are all manner of scars, lines, and grooves worn by the natural happenings of life. I can remember my maternal grandmother's hands. Ma's hands were especially brown towards the tips of her middle and index fingers from a lifetime of smoking unfiltered cigarettes, but she still liked to wear rings--it even seemed as if she had one for each finger. Some were costume rubi
