Your hands have always looked too big to hold those meek potatoes.
Fingernails peeling and callouses dirt crusted, you hand me a bag of
freshly plucked reds and yellows, caked in mud that I’ll wash off later in
my Chicago kitchen sink. I still have never seen you happier than when you
aren’t driving your truck and can tend to vegetables.
But your hands are your dead giveaway. Those creases and cracks, gasping
for water like dry riverbeds.
