His hand is quintessentially, unashamedly male. Large and barren of moisture. Fingernails so short they betray a disfigurement, the fingertips shoving them out of the way. No, he merely clips them short. With his teeth. He is a victim of skin cancer, but only on the back of his hands. Years of mowing without gloves or lotion. The skin is permanently chapped, a layer of dry, red sandiness, like the soles of his feet. He points with his middle finger. His high school ring, big as a bracelet.

Her swollen red hands are at work at the tapestry, diligently narrating string by string the wife of Lord Matsuharu. Wood spindles of bold-colored yarn rest beside her like the fringes of a palm, a watcher guiding her. She sings the song her grandmother sang, no words—just the high tune. Her sweater is the thickness and softness of a child’s blanket, and baby blue. Her perfect fingers guide the needle. I watched her paint her nails once, like each one was a person whose beauty she curated. She pursed her lips and admired them all.