The calluses on my hands cut both ways

My grandfather is in his eighties now and moves much slower than he did once upon a time.

But, when I knew him in his sixties, his hands wore the scars of a life of labor and hardship.

The knuckles and bellies of his hands were armored with calluses so sharp and so jagged they could give a crocodile goosebumps and, with enough worrying, turning a burlap bag into a fabric as soft as silk.

While I don’t live a life nearly as taxing as my grandfather, my hands are home to smaller, smoother calluses formed from the decade I spent pounding a basketball against the pavement, lifting weights and now boxing and fighting.

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