My granddaughter asked about the scar under my thumb at dinner tonight.
I told her it was from a hay baler, 1967. A loose chain and a moment of being too tired to be careful.
She traced it with her finger and said it looked like a river.
I noticed the airport luggage tag still on her suitcase by the door. She flew in from Denver this morning. First time in three years.
When she was little, we used to have fire-drill afternoons. I'd ring the old cowbell and she'd run to the oak tree and count to sixty. She took it more seriously than I ever did.
Now she's tall and talks about soil science and wants to know about my hands.
I spent eighty-five years building calluses over that scar. Never thought anyone would want to trace it.
After she went to bed, I sat here looking at my palm in the lamplight. It doesn't look like a river to me. But it does to her.