Here is an essay that begins in medias res, with a focus on the subject's hands.In the course of the essay the author discovers her character's past life, and closes with a last look at this man's aged and expressive hands.

Unforgettable Hands

He sits very still, like someone has put him in the comer and told him not to move. His face is very innocent, almost angelic. I notice his feet; crossed at the ankles and his socks are rolled down slightly to reveal his thin legs. One sock is obviously larger with two blue stripes at the top and the other one is a lot smaller with no stripes. His skin is an even tan color, like he went to the beach every summer when he was younger and the color never went away. His aged hands lay carefully in his lap. In his hands, I can see wrinkles from his life. I can almost see the heroic and frightened scratches from World War II and the love they had when he held his first born I can also see them taking out the garbage every night and holding the face of his beloved wife. Just in his hands, his life story poured is out to me.

He talks with his hands. A question is asked and his eyebrows, which are long, thin, and slightly gray, instantly rise up and the hands go into action. They shake if he is angry. If he is passionate about something, they make love to his words. On one finger is a ring he had made. It's silver and very massive. It looks like an antique and there is a big, rectangular turquoise stone in it. I was surprised when he let me try it on. "I made that," he says, eyeing me as I admire it. I give it back to him and ask him what he thinks a true friend is. His voice lowers, but his eyebrows go up. He looks around as if he doesn't want anyone else to hear, and says, "A true friend hmmmm. A true friend is somebody who is honest. Camaraderie, ya know? A true friend likes things you do, and if they don't, they don't say much about it. he'll praise you about it. A true friend means a lot. Someone you can laugh with, joke with, but not someone who will cut your throat every time you turn around."

I think about his answer and ask if he has a true friend. He says yes, but he died about a month ago. They were children together, went into the war together and were friends for 55 years. His voice is very smooth, like thin, cold water on a hot summer day. He doesn't once stutter or jumble his words. see a slight pain in his eyes. They look troubled, like he just lost his dog. His eyes are behind glasses, but you can still see the pain. Talking about his friend, his eyes look smaller and sleepy. He lowers his head when he speaks of him. He has a head fall of gray hair that he seems to be very proud of. When he talks to me, he looks straight into my eyes and I can feel them penetrate mine. It's obvious, looking at this man, that at some point in his life he was very attractive.

"Right now, my buddy is my wife. We've been together 50 years," the sound of his voice brings me back to reality. He smiles when he says the word wife. 'his time, the pain is gone, and all you can see is love. When he talks about her, the hands are all over the place. Moving up and around, like he is composing the most beautiful music in the world, and he wants everyone to hear it. He met her right after high school and they just fell in love" as he put it. It seemed so simple to him. When he talks about her, all he can do is smile. When he smiles, he shows a perfect row of white teeth.

He smiles a lot as I talk with him. Every now and then he reaches for a glass of water and when he drinks it, his whole head tilts back. He makes a "ahhh" sound as the water goes down and nods at me when he's ready for another question. The hands go back in the lap and his eyes watch me search for another question to ask him.

When asked about his childhood, the comers of his mouth, which are long with bright pink lips between them turn slightly upward into a huge grin. "I had 8 siblings,' he says proudly, like it's a huge accomplishment, "but we were nothing like the kids today. Did ya watch the news yesterday?" He asks me if I saw the piece on the kid who killed his family. "I would've fought the devil for my mother. And my father. Kids today-they don't realize that what they do is permanent." I shake my head in agreement, even though I am a "kid today." His eyes look toward the ceiling then, and I watch as the memories flow into his mind. He proceeds to tell me a story about his father. "One day before my father went to work, he told me there was a bucket of paint outside and that I was to paint the greenhouse. When he left, do you know what I did?" shrug, as he looks at me, blue eyes wide, the gray eyebrows up, his hands wild in the air, "I went out and played with my buddies. That day, when my father got home, I greeted him and" he makes a motion of his hand coming to his mouth, "he popped me in the mouth. I thought, what the hell was that for and he said, what did I ask you to do today? thought about his question and forgot what he had told me to do. From that day on, always did my chores before I went out with my buddies. Then, I had the whole day. That's one thing I'll never forget." He sits back in his chair, with a deep sigh, like the story has worn him out. His hands, which had been telling the story, too, as they remembered it, are now back in his lap, waiting for the next question.

Before I can open my mouth, he has one more story he can't help but tell me. "One time, during the Depression, my mother gave me $5 to go to the store to get something. I forgot what it was, but I remember it was important. My mother told me to go the store and come right back and to bring back change. She had given me $5 and that was our only $5. 1 walked to the store, ya know, like kids do just dawdling along, taking my time. When I got to the store I got what my mother had asked for and when I went up to pay for it, the girl took my money, and I'll never forget her name," he pauses for a second, remembering the young woman and his hands slow down in front of him, "Her name was Doris. She gave me my change and I went home. When I got home, my mother asked for the change, and I gave her what I had. Well, she popped me in the mouth and told me 'I gave you more than this.' So, she grabbed me by the hand and took me all the way back to the store. When we got there, Doris said she wasn't sure how much she had given me, but when they checked the money at night, if there was more, Doris said she would call us that very night. That's how important money was. Now, whenever I get change, I always count it as it's being handed back to me. I'll never forget that." Not knowing where this story came from, I smile and think about his wise words. He wags a finger at me and winks, letting me know that I should listen.

He scratches his head then and blinks his big blue eyes at me through his glasses. I wonder if he thinks kids have it a lot harder these days. I ask him this question, and a response is immediate. He nods his small round head as his hands rest on his belly, which I can see through the blue sweatshirt he is wearing, "absolutely. They have too many distractions. When I was a kid, there was no T.V. Every movie you see either has a bedroom scene in it, or someone dies. There just aren't good, wholesome movies anymore. John Wayne, now that's the good stuff. Kids have lost morality and shame,' he shakes his head disgustedly and runs a hand through his thick, sliver hair. He mutters something else to himself and shakes his head again.

Someone comes to say hi to him at that moment, and as he reaches over my head to shake the older man's hand, his scent enters my nostrils. It's spicy, like expensive cologne that he has bought to impress someone. I also got a smell of pepper-mints, which, to me, is a common scent among elders. He smells sweet, like freshly picked fruit. He also smells clean and like you just want to hug him. As he settles back down in his chair, the sunlight shines on his neck and the simple gold chain he wears sparkled in the sunlight. It looks distinguished on his tan neck and a skilled hand goes up to fiddle with his glasses as my eyes saunter back to his.

I ask him more questions and at times, I find myself not wanting to take notes, but just wanting to listen. At one point, he leans in close to my ear to answer a question and I feel his warm breath on my neck. That intrigues me. It seems like society these days is so afraid to get close, and everyone is so wrapped up in their own personal space. This total stranger wants to tell me his whole life, and he is just pleased that I am willing to listen.

What amazes me the most were his hands. They are small hands. The fingernails are very short and immaculately clean. The skin is the same color as the rest of him and smooth wrinkles cover the top of his hand. Just from his hands, I can tell this man is gentle, by the way he puts them in his lap and the way they pat my shoulder when I leave him. I can tell he is passionate, by the way they dance when he tells stories. I can tell that he is slightly perfect. Everything about him is clean and matching, except of course, his socks. His hands: I can stare at them forever, just imaging the hard times, fun times and memorable times they have been through. They held his mother's hands, a friend's hand, and his beloved wife's hands. They held babies, children and grandchildren. They have been through war, death, the Depression, and defeat. And they've survived. I might forget his name someday, but I will never forget his hands.