The veins in my hands are like silky cords of blue-green. I still can’t get used to these aged hands dangling on my wrists. Between my fingers the skin is raspy, dried out from chemicals I use to wash clothes and clean dishes. I’d slather my hands with lotion but what is the point when I will scrub them clean again in a few minutes?
My fingernails are short, practical, ragged around the cuticles. They suffer from neglect, from dishwater and digging weeds and idle picking while I’m watching television. My skin is loosening, bunching at the knuckles, criss-crossed with lines like a crazy map showing where I’ve been.
My hands show signs of overuse. They’re getting old, which seems impossible since I am still the same inside. My ragged hands betray my age and make me wonder why women abandoned the fashion of wearing dainty gloves in public. I have no time for manicures, nor would the gloss of painted nails survive the ravages of my daily life.
Two of my grandfather were each missing fingers. My Grandpa Johnson cut his index finger off with a saw while he was building a church. I have no idea how my Grandpa Martin lost his finger . . . he fought in World War II, but I suspect that his missing digit cannot be attributed to that historical event. I need to ask, to settle the mystery of his missing finger. (I used to think that grandfathers all had one finger missing, as if it were a requirement.)
(Seriously, I have no point to these rambling post about my hands . . . but I had to write it because I am so distracted by the prominent veins on my right hand. When did my hands get this old?)