I’m sitting here looking at my thumb
Maybe you think that’s pretty dumb
There’s nothing odd that you would see
But it brings back memories to me
I look down at the ridges, wrinkles and ways
My mind drifts back to my boyhood days
My Grandfather was a woodworker and had driven a nail or two
Sometimes he’d miss the nail and make his thumb black and blue
His thumb nail became misshaped and no longer looked right
He’d cracked it too often with all of his might
I’d see that thumbnail every day
That memory will never go away
I look at my fingers, my hands, but I see his
They’re old and wrinkled just like his
