Magic Hands

A silhouette of him standing in front of the sun looks down at you. The sun is too bright as you look up to his face and you squint. He moves to the side so you can inspect his face. He smiles with a kindness in his eyes reassuring you that you will be safe with him. The kind of eyes that can only be kind. He reaches out his hand for you to take. His hands are rough and dirty. You take his dirty hand with hesitation. You hesitate not because you don't want to go but because you don't want your hands to get dirty as well.

You follow him. Looking around you see an easel with a blank giant notepad on it. A notepad...not a painting canvas. You're confused. On the table next to the easel there are what appears to be small black sticks. He sits on a bench in front of the easel and begins to rub the black sticks across the paper. The sounds of the sticks sweeping across the paper, his hands brushing the black markings away every so often as he blows loose black powder away. Some of the lines smear and others are bold. You are mesmerized and don't even realize how much time has passed. The picture begins to take shape. Within minutes you realize it is a portrait of a woman. Who, you do not know but she was beautiful and had the most amazing detail you never knew can come from this person's magic hands. The same hands that you later learn have hurt to provide and have hurt to protect. And you still love him.