In the column this month, I’d like to share a freestyle poem written by my daughter. Recently published in her book of poetry, Mechanics of Dreaming, it called to me as I had been looking at my hands and thinking how, if nothing else, my hands tell the world just how old I am. Thanks Trish, for allowing me to share your words.
These Hands
My hands are old.
Today they are weathered and leathered and tired and sore.
Most days I never notice my hands.
I see my face, the skin tanned or pale,
Blemished or smooth.
I scan my chin, my breasts, my belly, my legs, my feet.
I look for indications that time is passing more quickly than I am prepared for.
I don’t see it.
I see time marked all over my body,
But it feels earned,
It looks right.
But these hands,
The ones I use to push back my hair
And look at my neck,
That I slide across a tensed muscle
Seeking signs of diminishing strength,
That I clasp behind my back.
These hands that have caught
Have thrown
Have lifted and let go
Have clapped so hard the sting turned them red
Have high fived in celebration
Have gripped and massaged and touched with affection
Have balled into fists that contained screams
But didn’t punch
Have played music that invoked tears
Have been torn asunder only to be saved
By the hands of another
These hands that type the words my brain desires they should
Ever patient, hovering over these letters
The space bar
If they could sigh, likely sighing with the abundance
Of visits to the delete button,
But they never judge, only perform.
When did they get so old?
The lines that are not on my face are on my hands.
The wrinkles and creases and indicators of use and age and time are there.
They’ll touch, feel, hold, hurt, caress, and continue.
My hands have borne the brunt of my experience.
They are,
Quite possibly,
The most beautiful part of me.
My own hands are going to carry my luggage, my passport and my ideas when I travel next May to Croatia. Are you going to travel with me? I hope so. It looks like an opportunity to encounter new adventures in beautiful part of our world. Let’s play together in the beauty of Croatia.
For more of Trish’s writing, find her on GoodReads or email Pat!
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Pat Nichol is a speaker and published author. Connect with her at mpatnichol@gmail.com.