Flakes of dead skin float like dust in the sunlight,
Revealing a rough alligator-esque layer beneath.
Creased with lines like the cracks on an eggshell,
Hair creeps up my wrists and onto my hand like adulthood,
Bones gently pushing up the skin,
Revealing the beautiful latticework beneath.
Knuckles protrude at various heights,
Like an uneven mountain range.
Hangnails lie torn and frayed,
Like old rope damaged from years of exposure.
Fingernails are bitten down low,
Revealing the red, soft flesh beneath.

These are my hands,
As dry as an old baseball mitt,
Hands with nails eaten far down,
Nails brought to the mouth out of instinct,
A sign of the anxious being they are attached to.
Too much washing,
Too many assaults of Purell hand sanitizer.
Not enough lotion,
Not enough glove-wearing.
The finger pads are hard and calloused,
From hours of carrying a heavy tuba case.
Digging deep, fingers are stuck in curled “c” position.
Pain shoots in my fingertips,
through my hand,
then wrist,
then arm.

Everything I have done in this life,
Has been done with these hands.
From my first human contact with my mother's face,
To scribbling out essays and daily notes.
From pushing myself up off the ground for the first time,
To pushing myself off a rock face while hiking.
From playing catch for the first time,
To playing a tuba solo in front of a crowd in the thousands.
From holding my blanket in a death grip as I fell asleep,
To comforting a friend in a tight hug.

My hands are here now,
And will not cease to be
Until I myself part with them at my funeral,
And have to walk the stairway to heaven without them.
Though new layers of skin
Will push the old ones off,
And new parts of life
Will sketch out new memories in the skin,
The same basic bone structure will remain.
The genetic makeup of my skin will remain.
The scars will remain.
The memories they bring will remain.
I will remain.

So they must be utilized for the best.
To make food for a stranger,
Or to lend to a fallen friend.
To write an encouraging letter to a soldier,
Or to develop a new car.
To ask for another in marriage,
Or to stroke my newborn child’s head.
To write out my first check,
Or to pay off my mortgage.
To shake and show respect to a new client,
Or to direct my words up above.
These are the hands that will carry me to the end.