Member-only story
Little Hands
Grandfather’s hands gripped the steering wheel on our ancient, rickety pickup truck, guiding it down the backcountry road towards our family farm. I noticed his hands. They were filled with wrinkles and calluses, tanned and weary from years of hard work.
He had dedicated his life to our family’s peach fields. But despite his best efforts, we were poor. Many night’s spent hungry kind of poor.
Though weathered, his hands still revealed all the strength and dignity that defined Grandpa Yiannis. Glancing down at my own small little boy hands, riddled with dirt and grime, I wondered if one day my hands might look so worn, so seasoned. I hoped they would.
“You’ll pick those peaches one day boy, don’t worry,” Grandpa chuckled as though reading my mind.
Aside from this, the rest of the drive was filled with an easy silence, the Greek countryside rolling by, peach trees blurring together in splendid orange and green bursts. Grandpa was a quiet man. But that made it so when he did speak, you listened.
The barn door creaked familiarly as Grandpa and I stepped inside, immediately engulfed by the aroma of fresh manure and stale sweat. Light whimpering was audible…
