Jake's Hands

Jake's Hands ©

The spring sun burned into the horizon that Friday afternoon as winter slid away from the shores of the mainland. Jake leaned over the railing outside the wheelhouse and watched the tourists clamor onto the ferry for the last trip of the day to Owl Island. The year round residents braced for the annual onslaught of tourists for six months of cluttered beaches, littered streets, howling children and rich fudge more rich fudge than anyone had a right to eat. The inhabitants of Owl Island hated rich fudge.

Jake laced his large fingers one on top of the other creating a giant ball. The tough skin of his hands, thick and callused, was like untanned leather, dry and coarse from years of exposure to the elements. The calluses on his palms had stopped hurting years ago but there they were, rough and exposed for the world to see. Dirt, dirt that no amount of scrubbing could remove, burrowed deep into the crevices around his knuckles.

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© Roy Bartels 2012