My grandfather has hands that have grown wrinkled and cracked and bruised with age.

His hard, calloused hands grip onto a ship wheel, protecting our country in the navy.

Even with the hands of a sailor, he holds onto my grandmother tenderly through 50 years of marriage.

His hands grips the phone with a firm embrace when he calls me, talking to me like it's the first conversation we've had in years, even though he calls to check up on me everyday. His hands tremble with worry when i'm in the hospital, he can barely hold the phone because he is shaking with unease.

He refuses to shake my hands, but gives me hugs, providing me an anchor, like he used during his time at sea.

He would change the channel to the news whenever I was watching a cartoon because he wants me to be informed and educated about the world around me.

My grandfather has hands that have grown wrinkled and cracked and bruised with age. Each and every one of those blemishes tells a story about his life.

Each wrinkle, a year spent at sea, with his wife, and with his grandchildren

His hands had provided me support and love throughout my life

For this, I am thankful for his hands

No matter how wrinkled,

How cracked

And how bruised

I love his hands, the hands that offered me, and so many others, the world.