The Hand of Time

I saw it, long ago.

Those hands.

Withered and wrinkled.

I asked her, then, if my veins would look the same as hers when I was her age.

She laughed, apologetically, but I was serious.

I wanted those hands.

And I’m beginning to see them, now.

Ever so slightly.

The pronounced blue protrusions.

The fragile cells in-between.

The soft cover of a life, well-lived.

Piano hands.

IMG_1366.jpg

Captured by Katie McCracken

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