St. Pierre Arcand

I am always asked about his hands. Have you ever seen his hands? Each and every finger and bone of his hands told a story. He was a tough old bugger. His right hand ..... the bones from his finger? Crushed almost to his wrist. Distorted and crooked. I wanted to ask, but it seemed rude, especially after being offerd a chocolate cookie. Store bought it looked like. He kept the tin box they were kept in under his pillow on his bed. He said I could take another one if I liked after I had finished the one he had given me. I said "merci" and smiled. Instead of asking about his hands, I asked if he could tell me a story. So he would tell "un count, de vieux temps". Stories when he was young like me, during the Rebellion, before his hands got broken.

He smoked will talking, never smiling, sometimes a far away look in his piercing blue eyes. The tips of his fingers were golden in color. He now smiled as he noticed at what I was looking at. He said it was from the cigarette. I smiled back, glad he didn't see how rude I was being, staring at his hands.

Sometimes while talking he would reach for his "Chaplet", and rub the beads between his fingers. He would ask mom a question, concerning events that had happened, and sometimes the story would take a different direction.

All the while , I would watch his hands and want to ask what happened to make my mushum's hands so broken.