He holds his hands up to the light -- wrinkled and rough, textured like sandpaper over wood. Hands that have seen a day's work: They have written and sketched, waltzing across paper, pencil in grip; they have built and constructed, forming foundations of wood and of stone; they have pulled and pushed, forming tight fists and working the land.

These hands were made to create.

He holds his arm up to the light -- muscled and strong. Arms that have seen a days work: They have carried loads many times their weight and they have carried loads many times lighter; they have dropped loads, too, on occasion ("Ouch, damn it all that hurt!" he yells as seventy-four pounds crushes his toes); they have gently caressed the smooth down-soft hair on a newborn's head, and three times around, no less.

These arms were made to protect.

He sets his arm down and glances at his legs, weary from a day's hard work. His body's shadow darkens his thighs as he contemplates what he sees: Legs that have walked many miles, carrying his large frame; legs that have kept him going when his mind was screaming for rest, pressured by the grueling sun; legs that have given way, when need be, to allow rest to cover him like the rising tide.

These legs were made to endure.

One more time, now, he holds up his hand, and this time there's company. His heart beats a little faster as his calloused fingers tighten their hold on the neck of the Heineken bottle, threatening to choke it or to never let it go. His skin feels clammy and cold as nausea tints his vision a wish-washy green -- like puke, he thinks, like someone has gone and goddamn vomited on my eyeballs.

It was barely perceptible before, because one would always look at his eyes, his smiling and laughing eyes, but the fuzz on his ill-shaven beard is white and a dull gray marks the hair atop his head. The skin of his face is creased and folded like rough leather.

He looks to his hand a third time, and then to his hand's company -- there's a flitting moment's hesitation as some emotion flickers across his facial features. The bottle then kisses his lips: a fleeting kiss, a butterfly kiss.

His laughing eyes -- his smiling and laughing eyes -- are rimmed with red and a salty wetness.

Daddy, Daddy don't cry. Daddy, you used to be so strong.