My dad has been dead for quite a few years now, but still I find myself thinking of him. Which parts of me are from him? Which parts of me will I leave with my kids? At his memorial service, I talked a lot about his hands and how they seemed so impossibly big to me when I was a kid. Anyway, there’s no real point to this story other than I miss him and I will always miss him and I will be reminded of him regularly. That’s grief, I guess.
beautiful, i love how tactile this is with all the textures and hatching-- perfect for the subject of hands.