Us older women have a thing about hands.
We can improve our looks with makeup. We can dye away the grey hair. We can hide our bat wings with long sleeves. We can smooth out the lumps and bumps with the proper clothes.
But we can’t hide our hands.
And our hands won’t hide our age.
I look at my hands and I see something else beyond my age.
These hands wiped away tears and sweat. They cradled delicate beings and moved heavy furniture. They loved and they punched. With them I created beautiful things and destroyed the ugly.
They express my every emotion while I talk. They cook, they clean, they endure a lot of punishment. I’ve cut them with paper, knife, saw and razor blade. Chewed off their nails and cuticles. They’ve been immersed in some terrifying chemicals, and turned soil in gardens and pots.
Fingers have danced across typewriters, keyboards and musical instruments. I’ve strangled and discoloured them with jewellery. Broken blood vessels while boxing. Sprained them when falling. Overused them until they hurt. Slammed fingers in drawers and doors. I’ve smashed them with hammers, pierced them with nails, pins and needles.
They have rescued me.
They have enabled me to do the impossible, make dreams become reality, comfort and love the unlovable.
They have been in every orifice of my body, know every ounce of my skin. They scratch and rub and soothe.
I look at them and see a life lived.
Seldom do they complain.
Except when the weather is cold and damp.