That isn't just dirt in the creases of his hands. It's dry earth he pushed through with a rusty plow behind two mules to prepare his land. It's slivers from the handles he gripped strongly and worked against. It's sweat he wiped from his brow as the sun scorned him. It's hair and **** and slobber from the horses and cows and pigs he tended. It's hard work. But mostly, it's love.
Love filled up every part of his hands, made them look *****. Love filled up a tiny valley as he stroked the long muscular neck hidden beneath the knotted mane of his favorite palomino. Love took its place in his hands as they planted each seed in a predestined hole in the ground. Love soaked the skin when sweat broke free to naturally cool him. Each time he caressed the velvet cheek of his bride with the vulnerable palm of his hand, love was there to leave her a tender tingle. Love acted as a pillow when she pressed her hand into his for comfort; it told her he was by her side and would be there when she needed. It was the fight his touch put into his wife just as she was becoming a mother. Love was the cradle as his baby girl was placed in his hands. Love was the peace his hands told his wife as she slipped away. Love was in his hands as he held his daughter's. Love was in his hands as they walked to the grave, and laid the flowers on it, and walked away.