Skinny yet strong, my arms hold their own. Their color white like a ghost, with thin dark hairs interrupting the skin. Veins slither through my forearm and funnel into another on my bicep. My brother’s arms are worn, showing his perseverance through long work hours. The ink that once pierced his skin now portrays his acceptance of varying perspective. His arms are twigs with their size and strength. That trait was not passed down from my Father. His forearms would force fear upon his enemies… if he had any. His arms show strength in both size and tone. Their rough look deceives many people, however. These arms show strength, like the arms of an army.