Little Hands
Aug 31, 2018 · 6 min read
Grandfather’s hands gripped the steering wheel on our ancient, rickety pickup truck, guiding it down the backcountry road towards our family farm. I noticed his hands. They were filled with wrinkles and calluses, tanned and weary from years of hard work.
He had dedicated his life to our family’s peach fields. But despite his best efforts, we were poor. Many night’s spent hungry kind of poor.

