He looked at his hands. They were scarred but soft. Every wrinkle had been earned. He even say the faded white line of the pig’s last dying kick, the hoof catching him between his thumb and forefinger.

The seventeen stiches on his index finger; the soft, pink leftovers of that night, slightly discolored was a reminder of a past he wanted to forget and a future he wanted to live once more.

The incidental cuts on his knuckles that showed up, often caked with dirt, left little dots. He pulled the small flap of skin of a scrape off and let the dirt coagulate the blood. One more dot.

His fingers showed his life. The broken knuckle at the end of one of his fingers, the flattened finger nail, his obsession, his hatred and his happiness. “Shit!” he almost yelled as a piece of sharp wood wedged its way into his palm leaving a red blotch and a piece of wood sticking out. He pulled it out and continued working.

Over the years his hands slowly changed from soft and dimpled to calloused and dirty and back again. His pride altered with the time stamped on his hands.