hands in the dark

my grandfather's hands were always worn, the skin thick and rough from years of working in the fields. he would hold mine in his, and i could feel the calluses, the ridges and lines that mapped out his life. his hands were strong, but gentle, and they would guide mine as we walked through the village, past the sabzi mandi and the chaiwallah. he would point out the different vegetables, the ways to distinguish between them, and i would listen, entranced. his hands were a universe, a topography of lines and creases that told a story. and when he held my mother's hands, i could see the way his eyes would soften, the way his fingers would intertwine with hers. it was a language, a way of speaking without words, and i would watch, mesmerized, as they conversed in this silent dialect. my own hands, small and unlined, would feel inadequate, incomplete, as if they were waiting to be filled, to be imprinted with the stories of my own life. and when my grandfather passed away, his hands were the first thing i remembered, the first thing i missed. i would find myself reaching out, instinctively, for the comfort of his touch, the reassurance of his grip. but it was just air, empty space, and i would be left with nothing but the memory of his hands, the feel of his skin against mine. i think of his hands often, now, as i navigate my own life, as i try to make sense of the world around me. and i realize that his hands, those working hands, had given me something, had imparted a knowledge, a wisdom, that i am still trying to decipher. it is a slow process, a gradual unraveling, but i am learning to read the lines, to navigate the topography of my own hands, my own heart.