As my grandpa takes my fishing line from me,

I notice his hands,

Tough and gnarled like branches of an ancient oak tree,

Stiff and inflexible like steadfast roots during a squall,

No longer limber and quick like they once were;

His hands, hardened by years of experience,

Have dirt caked on like rings in tree trunks,

Years of baiting hooks engrained into their memory,

Catching crickets like second nature,

Age not affecting the speed with which they tie a new hook;

His sapient fingers weave the fishing line in and out,

As if they’ve performed this action thousands of times,

Taking struggling fish off hooks like releasing blue jays into flight,

Knowing just where to hold them without being stabbed by spiny fins,

Wielding pocket knives like a trained assassin,

Cutting away caught lines and cleaning fish for supper,

Indicating to me the edible parts and how to scrape off scales;

His hands are like oak trees

With a message etched into their bark.

Each finger bearing battle scars from every fight,

Every scratch, nick, cut, and burn a testament to his vast wisdom,

Each drop of blood permanently inked into his papery skin,

Holding knowledge unknown to new generations;

His memory will last forever.