Hands

I was staring at my hands,

imagining them fifteen years ago

and how small they used to be,

and how small they seem now.

How I used to compare them

to my father’s hands,

and how I would hope to never have his

fat, sausage-like, hairy fingers.

I think, in a way, my hands have

ended up shockingly similar,

depressingly disfigured.

I hope my hands are never

as uncomfortable to hold as his.

I remember holding mine into his,

comparing size and width;

secretly cursing him and his hands

while he smiled down at how cute

my curiosity in his palm was.

I feel that I will regret

having this memory one day.