Hands

This morning I was stopped by the image of my hands. The creases and wrinkles are twice as much as last year. I started wondering where it all came from or how I got it. There was a vague flash back (or maybe just a tickle of my imagination) of my own tiny soft hands held by one warm finger. My baby hands! So small and all it can grab was my mother’s finger. That’s all I saw and snapped back to reality then I looked at my hands again. It looks old and weary but still very able. If my hands can talk it can probably remember more of my life than my short-termed memory. It was the very tool of my every action, the messenger of my every thought and deed, and my savior when I turn mute. It makes the obvious even more alive when it hits its surface.

September 29,2008