i remember his hands. hands that labored. steel against steel in the boiling sun. laying each track. hands wipe the salty midwestern dust. hands. rough with labor. hands softly rocking the baby back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, sitting in that worn-out wooden chair placed in the corner of the room. hands that whispered goodnight, my baby, goodnight. hands that fed grandma. fed grandma puddings and jell-o and tasteless clouded mush. every day those hands fed her slowly as she forgot his name. hands that built swingsets from the neighbor's tuesday trash. hands that held together prayers, held together a family. hands that would twirl you around and around and around. hands to read the poems of Lorca. hands. i remember. i remember his hands.