It is the hand that is the structure of the painting of our life. Being left handed is a  trait that only makes up for  10 percent of the world's population. My dad has hands of years of hard work. His hands are leather gloves, ready for the next task. His hands have not been many places but swung many bats, lifted many ladders, and held three baby children. My mother's hands are like a refurbished phone. Soft and gentle, but worn from years of use. Her hands are the epitome of mothers touch. My brothers and sisters are like paws of a puppy. Fresh and new to the world that they await. Learning from their mistakes and repeating past success. My hands are thrown in the melting pot of my family’s. Unique in the fact that my preferred hand is 180 degrees to the left. My hands are still new to the world but still aren’t new to work. I hear in between my fingers screaming for moisture from the dried crevices. Hours of hard work can be seen in the calluses below each of my fingers. Calluses below each of my fingers.