The Corner

As I stood on the corner I saw a stranger approaching. When he stopped, he was holding his hand out to me. It had the look of a craftsman's hand - rough but steady, strong and firm, hard working and stern without being rash. The hand had the look of kindness. It seemed that my own resolve had meaning to him. His hand would not take mine up like a resistant child's, but would wait for my stretched out response. I debated my reply. There was no language to learn or motion to master. The hand clearly beckoned and required only acceptance to continue. As I pondered the steady hand, I considered the life of this man whose generosity seemed unabridged. Surely this man had labored long and hard to provide for his own. Calluses covered fingers and palms alike. Scars and nicks were abundant, but one stood out above the rest; It seemed to cover his whole palm. I studied this scar and wondered how he had not lost his hand when he was injured. I tried to imagine the pain he must have felt, and could not. Deciding that this man would be a friend, I wondered if he would truly accept me as such when we knew each other better. It seemed to me he would. I held my hand out and took his.

L. Kelly Waters
1991

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kwaters@USCUpstate.edu