My hands

I look down at my fingernails that are now constantly caked in soil, no matter how much I wash or how hard I scrub, and I smile. I look down at the palms of my hands and I count the many calluses that have formed from spade, shovel, and pitchfork handles. I turn over my hand and look at the many scars that have appeared from brambles, hot stoves, and accidents. These are the hands of a gardener. These are my hands.