There they are. Pounding away at the keyboard right now. Sitting in front of me every other second of my life. They move in ways that I don’t even have to think about and communicate my thoughts when I don’t even know it. Every little crack was worked into existence through bends and folds that I never felt happening. They show scars and marks and bumps that represent so many stories that only they can tell.
These hands have gone through a lot. They have learned how to write, learned how to tie a shoe, learned how to play the guitar, learned how to hold my wife’s hand. They have gone with me everywhere. Touched many more things than I can even remember. Helped me get up, helped me sit down, helped others even do the same. I rarely take the time to look down at them and the usefulness that they exude. Each finger serving a purpose, and each finger lined with intricate detail.
I was given these hands. They are Moog hands, according to my Grandpa. They have a certain look, a certain feel, a certain size. They shake someone’s hand a certain way. A similar way to the way that he shook people’s hands. Similar to the way my Dad’s handshake was too. I have learned how to duplicate those hand shakes. The squeeze that they gave to greet new people or to welcome old friends.
My hands have different creases and wrinkles embedded into their memory than other Moog hands, but they represent the same thing. My Grandpa and my Dad’s hands learned how to do many things that mine have yet to learn. Their hands worked to provide for their families. Their hands grew in toughness through hard situations. Their hands aged in wisdom from the memories they gained. But they were Moog hands too.
I don’t get to shake those hands any more, but I do remember their squeeze. Their touch. Their callouses. I look at my hands and know that they represent a lot more than just myself. They are Moog hands. So I get to honor my Dad, and honor my Grandpa not by wishing I could hold their hands, but by using mine. By learning new things, shaking new hands, gaining new scars, and deepening their wrinkles. I get to remember them through what my hands do. I know I won’t always do great things with them, but I hope to use my Moog hands to appreciate all that went into making them and all that they are capable of doing.