“I look at them and wonder, are these the hands that worked all those years? Are they the same ones that play the fiddle, the same that held my late wife as she passed over last winter? I look Gojeck, and it’s as though they belong to another man,” said Malak.
The old friends sat on the bench and shared their lives, as they had for over eighty years.
“I couldn’t say, my friend. I have always admired the strength in your hands. Mine are so small and rough compared to yours,” replied Gojeck.
“Yes, Anya tells me when you two hold hands; it’s as if she’s holding a warthog’s ear,” teased Malak.
The friends sat silently, watching the sun slowly disappear over the horizon.
“Best be getting home, or the old hoot will tan my hide for sure,” said Gojeck.
“Be well, my friend, and don’t worry about your hands; they fit you very well,” Malak said with a smile.
The old friend parted ways, knowing their hands would be called on to do the same as they had for years and do them the best they could.
Folksburywoods Story Blog 
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