Incryptions

I remember only his hands, or maybe I remember an assembly of hands belonging to many men, all averaged together, having been gripped and gripped my whole life in familiar ceremonies like this one. Sometimes by the wrist, sometimes the shoulder, sometimes as they came to rest on top of my head to bless me. Always these hands are warm and blotched and broad, used to manipulating machinery or wood. Age has made them uncertain, shaky in reaching out, but when they get ahold of me, they become firm and assured.