Last night I remembered something I had written a while ago and posted with a picture of my hands. It was about getting older and it was good for me to read. Again. This is it. Without the picture of the hands.
… I was driving today and looked at my hands in the bright sunlight. (this image is from last winter). But I looked hard at them and the first thought was, shit, when did I get so old? I have my mother’s hands and I’m too young to be my mother. (sorry for saying shit. twice.) So, I’m stopped at a traffic light, still staring at my hands… and I’m thinking about my two babies these two hands held and bathed and tucked in to bed. I was thinking about the footballs they have thrown, the piano pieces they have butchered and the ones they’ve mastered ( a lot fewer). They have caressed faces and thrown cell phones. They have written research papers at 2 a.m. They have turned page after page of other people’s adventures. They have crossed oceans. They have wiped away tears and traced smiles. They have held the hands of those I love. They hold stories. Secrets. and Hopes. Old is good. In my world, in my hands, old is good. … and traffic lights in my city stay red way too long.