My father’s hands are worn and aging. They can tell the stories of his life. The stories of a father, husband, son, lawbreaker, veteran, student, mechanic, surfer, caretaker, builder, friend, brother, and abuser. I have seen many of these hands; in warm strong embraces from visits too far apart, claps on the back when I achieve greatness, bloody torn versions from so many projects, and anger filled rages leaving holes in walls. As much as they can be gentle they can also be strong, shoving my face into the ground as I hear the horrid words of my disgraceful existence. Then the same hands folded in a begging plea to be forgiven. Today, I cannot hate these hands. These old, worn hands that have loved, brought me into this world, and will one day hold my children. There is fear that they will turn again into those weapons of damage. But they have grown still, flowing through each day grasping, grabbing, expressing, and making new stories. It is said that every seven years our entire bodies are replaced with new cells. I hope that like our bodies, my father’s hands have become replaced. Yes, there are scars and fears but I have grown and found what true love is. My father’s hands have taught me that.