CAMAGÜEY.- My dad’s hands are big, with strong fingers, a lot of scars and early blisters due to the hard work in the field. These hands show the calluses of the skin and the soul’s, those that come out a lot when one has sweated to sustain and educate a family.

Hands that grabbed the palm leaves´ hat to fan us in the endless nights of the power cuts in the 90’s, hands that sowed, bred animals, fished, cooked or gave form to leather covers for machetes, the same hands that hold today the reins of his horse, because he taught us well that one is dignified when one earns a living with a decent work.

With his hands he became our abettor pretending to be a sports man or an artist, a physical therapist, a journalist or a mother, he caresses us with them and cheers us up when our world is falling apart, but also corrects us if he thinks we go astray, and gives a lesson of how important is to deliver what we promise.

He also has wizard hands, because we saw how a stem of a squash leaf became a trumpet, and how the stigmas of the flamboyant flower became little gladiator horses. How lucky the six women of my dad’s life are (my mom, my sister, my two nieces, my little girl and I), to count on his hands.

Translated by Elizabeth Briñones Fonseca/ student