My grandfather's hands were large enough to cover my whole face. It's funny how that's what I remember.
They smelled of oil. He was a mechanic. His fingernails were rimmed in grease against the lava soap-scrubbed pink of his fingers.
And cigars. He smelled on Sundays of cigars that Gramma let him smoke that one day of the week.
He smelled of Wild Turkey on Friday nights. His breath would come in rhythmic gusts of sweet-sickly whiskey. Warm and soft on my cheek, like an artist's camel-hair paintbrush.