Rough Hands

I greet the sun,

as one would an abusive father.

It greets me back as always,

and leaves kisses from which I can’t take cover.

A layer of kisses a day,

the kind that appears crimson even against my umber skin.

The stinging kisses cover my body,

more than my clothes ever did.

I greet my books,

as I would my favourite teacher.

And it’s only fitting because

I’ve never had the chance of having either.

My shovel is an extension of me,

more familiar than a pen.

Often, I carry too much,

more than my body possibly can.

My hands are different,

but I only notice at Papa’s wake.

When my cousin clasps my hands,

I do a double take.

He is my age.

His hands are like those of women divine.

I thought the roughness and bumps came with growth,

especially since Mama’s and Papa’s look like mine.

When can I be like him?

Like them?

When will the day come

when I can bring home

a report card instead of money,

a school bag instead of a sack,

a stack of books instead of tools?

When will the day come

when I can wear a

a white pair of shoes,

a white shirt,

a white pair of socks?

When will the day come

when I can pick up a pencil,

not a tool,

when I can be a kid,

not a tool?

Will the day ever come?