Showing My Age0
The other day I was sitting in my car, staring at my hands holding on to the steering wheel, and I noticed my hands are aging. The skin is looser and extra soft and I can make wrinkles appear and disappear with a flex of my fingers. If I clench my fist and then relax my hand, I can see the age creep up in slow motion.
While I’m only 32 years old, these hands have already done a lot. I’m already telling my future old lady self to take notice right now. One day there will be deep burrowed wrinkles and skin so soft that it moves back and forth with ease.
These hands of mine have done many things to acquire their age so far. They’ve held the hands of dying patients who were all alone in their last moments on earth. My hand stroking the top of their hand; back and forth, back and forth quietly and gently. Squeezing them to let them know that I was right there with them.
My hands have compressed the chest of a newborn who needed their heart to start beating; fingers poised and ready to go, up and down, up and down. They’ve caught the slippery life of a brand new baby coming into this world with a sudden rush.
My hands have held my lover’s hands in soft embrace. So frequently we’ve held hands that I’m sure I could pick out his among others without looking. I’ve poked my fingers at least a million times to squeeze out a tiny drop of scarlet blood to test my blood sugar, aging my skin just a little bit more.
Right now they have a subtle brush of tan coating on the tops, a direct result of pushing my stroller in the sunshine. One day the day will come and I will look down at the deep deep crevices and wonder when did it all happened. When did I grow old? I will gratefully remind myself about all that they have touched and this moment that made me stop.