Hands

What do you do when life’s been a little sideways? Sometimes I paint my nails. Because: painting, and colors, and a quiet moment to make something look finished... for a few days, anyway. 

And today I stretched the quiet moment while they dried and snapped a photo.

“Look at that perfect, frosty rose polish!” 

Then I was rocked by how old my hand looks. 

Truth is, this one, and its even more weathered twin, have done a lot, carried a lot, soothed a lot, scrubbed, and dug... a lot. They’re hands acclimated to heat. Shaped and misshapen by thousands of squeezes, pats, dings, scars, scalds, and abrasions. I don’t baby them. Forget to lotion them. And push them to the limit, even when they ache.

I’m sometimes startled when I actually see these old hands. Skin so beat up and wrinkly... and that pinky with a slight bump and bend at the knuckle.

I’d like to imagine myself physically young and untouched by life and time, even as I claim to embrace and elevate the marks of its passing. Guess I'm still worshipping youth, still holding fast to an ideal of no mars and scars... and no being dragged sideways.

I’d rather only see the pretty polish. 

But it’s not the truth. 

My hands tell the story.