Those familiar hands
are thick, flecked with sun kisses,
old paint and careless scars;
nails blunt each finger with sturdy short caps,
just a little jagged and dirty.
One grips the pencil as the paintbrush,
covering the paper with thoughts and figures,
indecipherable to most.
The other rubs over the bald head,
first scratching above the ear, rubbing the dome,
then sliding down to rest on the thick neck.
For us it is past the gates
of tallest pines on to a cloud of bluebonnets–
green, blue with hints of pink–beneath
a wizened oak where mockingbirds
echo seraph songs.
I speak heartily
for the work of his hands deafens him,
“When you get to heaven, will you still do math problems
even though you’ll know all the answers?”
He glances up with his pencil and a quick smile,
“Ah good, you’re here.
Come here and let me show you something.
This problem’s new.”
Info on writing prompt