My hands look old. No longer soft and genteel. Now, my hands seem weary. No longer smooth but full of lines and wrinkles, rough no matter how much lotion I soothe over them. In these days, polish is no longer used, and nails are kept short. In these days, life seems to have settled within the creases along-side the blue veins that are now visible. These are my journeys. My stories. They enlighten the joys and the sorrows, and if you look closely, they speak of my loves.

My hands look old. No longer soft and genteel. But these are the hands that tap across the keys to create the words so you will remember. And, these are the hands that dig in the dirt to make the beautiful flowers to brighten your day. These are my hands. The ones that scurry along to leave witness so you won’t forget who you are.