This morning, when I was getting some medication out of a bottle, I happened to look down at my hands for no reason. Putting the pills aside, I splayed my fingers on both hands and began to study them harshly. It dismayed me to see the wrinkles, veins and freckles that covered them.
Oh no, I thought, do they look old now? I read in a magazine once that said it’s easy to tell the age of a woman by her hands. Can people tell I’m in my fifties just by looking at mine? Oh man, I hate getting old.
I stared at my hands for far too long, turning them over and back. Why had I not noticed them before? They were no longer soft and supple the way they used to be. I couldn’t believe I walked around with those hands for my whole life, and it never occurred to me that they might someday look older.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a memory popped into my head. I thought of when I used to trace my first baby’s cheek with my finger. I realized that I had used my hands to hold my children as well as for hundreds of feedings and diapers.
I recalled all the times I held my little ones’ hands crossing a parking lot, the times I played patty cake with them and also pushing them on the swings while they giggled. I remembered clapping for each one at their school concerts and plays.