Hand me down

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I don't really remember my grandpa much any more, I remember small distorted frozen images, one of which is my tiny hand in his, walking to get the morning paper. When we speak of him my mum always talks of his hands. They were her favourite part of him. He had beautiful hands, she would say, ones you would see drawn in a book. He had beautiful tattoo's on his arms. She tells me of the day he died. I was only a child, the thing she remembers, is touching his hands and arms for the last time, taking in his skin, his tattoo's, the last touch. He had a finger that sat below the rest, it was bitten by a Monkey when he was serving in the army in Vietnam.

I feel this way about my Clarky's hands, he has the 'should be drawn in a book' perfect model paws. I always joke that if he dies (and I can't stuff his whole body) I'll have his hands stuffed, or exact replica's made so even though he's not there I will always be able to hold his handsome hands. 

They are perfect and they are mine.