The Rabbi's Hands

You can't unsee 'em.

In the cemetery, the rabbi spoke words of consolation for my wife’s grandfather. It felt like a privilege to be in attendance, and I wanted to feel the significance of such a sacred event. But as the rabbi spoke, I could only stare at the rabbi’s giant hands, landing pads that could carry the weight of the world, the sky and the soil and a prayer, that would lay their grandfather to rest. I thought he could carry about fifteen ice cream cones in just one of his meat paws.

Her grandfather was somewhere down there, and also somewhere out there maybe in the wind or in those rays of light. And I bet like a hundred and thirty-five grapes.

I bowed my head and felt my feet against the earth, tried to appear as solemn as I could, for I understood that guiding a man’s passage to the next world was sacred. But this rabbi... and I know it’s cliche, but he must’ve been packing and did anyone else want to acknowledge this? I glanced at his crotch.

And then it was over, the body buried, the eulogies spoken, perhaps a soul beamed to the heavens. I lifted my eyes and saw the outstretched hand, fingers like shotguns. Firm and steady. The quintessential dad hand. Hand of a man that could take care of things. Like building a shack or fixing an engine or burying a body. His hands were weapons. They were magnificent pieces of flesh and bone that should’ve been in a museum. That will be one day. I had to shake it. I hadn’t wanted to at first but I just had to now. I punched my hand forward and gripped, trying to match his force. He looked at me curiously and offered his condolences. My wife and I walked to the car. She was doing okay. She asked me what I thought. It took me a few seconds, my head spinning, as I held one hand in the other, and finally I said the whole thing was very nice.