He looks forward from the hot stoop.  His old rocking chair creaks and cracks under his gentle motion.  A warm breeze blows from the west, and causes him to look that way.  Down past the sea of grass, farther than the river, even farther than the rolling hills in the distance, past a world of towns and people, the sun sinks into a tired shade of red.  His eyes wander down to the backs of his dark hands, and he rubs his wrists in memory of pain.

“You better go ‘n get dem kids.”

“I’ma goin,’ I’ma goin,’”

His chair gently rocks behind him as he saunters down the porch.  His feet lead him around the tiny shack to where the kids play.  He sees them in the distance.  They’re both laughing, and running.  His mind tries hard to make a new memory; golden fields with the children of summer enjoying the last light of day.  He tries to holler out to them, but he can’t.  He just wants to watch them play.  He can’t stand to have to stop that joy.  Pride fills his heart.  His body is so worn down that he takes a seat on the back step.  The children run over as they see him.

“Pa, can you show us some games ta play?”

“I dunno any games.”

“Why not?”

“They’s weren’t no games when I was a boy.  Naw you two get clean’d up for Momma.”

The two girls tenderly grab his worn hands.  The rough calluses scratch their palms, but in their grip he feels love.  They pull the old man to his feet and lead him back to the front of the house.

“Naw get clean’d up.”

They run into the shack, and he sits back down in his chair.  He turns his worked hands to the sky.  Hard work has almost rid his palms of colour.  The skin is cracked and dry, and hold memories of ghosts.  As he reminisces about what his hands have been through he feels sharps pains on his back.  Seventeen lashes for giving a wrong look.  His body begins to ache all over as he remembers the toll that has been taken out of his bones.  He remembers the work.  He remembers the pain.  He remembers the hatred.  His body is too tired to cry, but if he still had tears left in him, he would.

“Pa, you comin’?”

He looks back down at his hands, and rubs them together.  He thinks to himself, they used to be rougher.