My hands of time.

Sometimes I sit and stare at my hands and look for stories.

When I open my left hand, I'm reminded of the time I jumped from a chair in first grade after cleaning the blackboard and my hand landed on a sharp pencil the kid next to me was holding. The lead is still embedded in my palm, and I like to think it's where my desire to write comes from.

A long gaze over my right hand reveals three distinct scars; two from dog bites and one from a nasty knife slice years ago. They're muted lines that remind me no matter how much it hurt at the time, everything heals with that same time.

I look at my slightly crooked finger on my left hand. It reminds me of the weekend I broke it in a martial arts tournament when I was a kid. The slight bend tells me I was brave enough to enter the tournament even though I wasn't very good and the other guy was bigger than me. I wound up winning a medal.

As I turn my hands over and stare at the backs of them, I'm reminded of what I've seen nearly every day for the past 21 years at work. Typing addresses. Unit numbers on traffic stops. Hitting the keys frantically, trying to get the shooting in as quickly as I can just in case those three extra seconds means someone lives to see another day.

My right hand. My dominant hand. The one that signs the dinner bill, reminding me to be thankful we can eat out every now and then. The same hand that I use to open the front door. It reminds me I'm safe, warm, comfortable, and lucky to have a home.

I look at my right index finger and make a hook. The hook that pushes the button on my camera so I can remember what an amazing life I've had and the things I've seen. That camera will serve as my memory later in life when I don't remember things so well.

And my left hand bears the symbol of my commitment to Dori and my promise to Alexa to be there for her, even when she's 30. My wedding ring is made partly of a deep, rich koa wood, reminding me of the beach in Hawaii where we exchanged vows in a tremendous rainstorm. Where our story started a new chapter together.

And lastly, I look at my fist. It's a symbol of strength. It reminds me to be tough and fight for what I believe in. It tells me I don't have to take a backseat and back down to fear or to anyone.

My hands remind me of how good I really have it. They tell me I've been a lucky man and that as long as I can move them, I'll always be looking for them to tell me another story.