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Hands

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Today I found myself in wanting of a camera. Which in itself is unusual for me.

These two old men were talking, wrinkled faces maps of their lives with every crease and fold, eyes dark shades that I could not clearly see. As they talked and laughed together, I observed them further. My friend said they must be twins, or at least brothers, for they had similar curves to their wax-drop noses, the same salt and pepper hair and way of smiling. One man linked his hands behind his back, and they were bright against the backdrop of his dark shirt, I can remember that clearly. His hands were as aged as his smiling face, fingertips rounded and bigger than mine will ever be. Nails tipped with short cream white crescents, pinching two together absently. His fingers were interlaced in a complicated knot of wrinkled skin of varrying hue’s and shades, caught in the half-light of a lamp. And I thought, if only I had a camera to take a picture of his hands; knotted and aged and looking like pieces of polished wood, so then I could have a picture for how I hope my hands will be some day. Wrinkled and aged, with stories upon stories for every little freckle of spot. I hope I live to be old enough to hold the hand of a child and see the difference time has had on their hand and mine. Their palms will be smooth and unblemished, while mine will be laced through with creases like the veins in a leaf.





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