These hands aren't the hands of a gentleman these hands are calloused and old
Some people have power but still they grieve
While these hands brought me happiness
A pile of discarded manuals lay to the side, a jumble of white paper, black ink, step-by-step in four languages, all of which he could read, if not well. He'd read none of them, of course--he'd flown these planes, or ones like them--knew them as well as he knew his own body, as well as he knew the bodies of his spouses, the layout of his city. And those he'd been too young or too busy to see, he'd read about.
Still, he didn't think the P-51 Mustang's wings were supposed to go that way.
He frowned over at the pile of manuals and turned his back on them, letting the warm evening sun paint the model's skin orangeish instead of it's accustomed drab green. The ceiling overhead is already hung with three finished models, the planes he loves best--the F-25, the Raptor, and the F4F Wildcat. The room is already heady with the smell of paint and glue, but he's set up a ventilation system he thinks the engineers in the family will yell at him about, but he's not dead yet. The fan blows quietly, mixing with the sound of smoothly rushing waves outside, and John smiles to himself, fingers caked with glue over callouses that never seem to go away. This is for his child, and for his child...maybe...just maybe...
he glances over his shoulder at the manuals, then back at the off model.
maybe
While these hands brought me happiness
A pile of discarded manuals lay to the side, a jumble of white paper, black ink, step-by-step in four languages, all of which he could read, if not well. He'd read none of them, of course--he'd flown these planes, or ones like them--knew them as well as he knew his own body, as well as he knew the bodies of his spouses, the layout of his city. And those he'd been too young or too busy to see, he'd read about.
Still, he didn't think the P-51 Mustang's wings were supposed to go that way.
He frowned over at the pile of manuals and turned his back on them, letting the warm evening sun paint the model's skin orangeish instead of it's accustomed drab green. The ceiling overhead is already hung with three finished models, the planes he loves best--the F-25, the Raptor, and the F4F Wildcat. The room is already heady with the smell of paint and glue, but he's set up a ventilation system he thinks the engineers in the family will yell at him about, but he's not dead yet. The fan blows quietly, mixing with the sound of smoothly rushing waves outside, and John smiles to himself, fingers caked with glue over callouses that never seem to go away. This is for his child, and for his child...maybe...just maybe...
he glances over his shoulder at the manuals, then back at the off model.
maybe