my hands

When I look at my hands in artificial light like lamps and such, they look alright to me. But when I see them in pictures or in natural light and I am wearing my reading glasses well they look like someone else's hands. They look worn out and tired and sad. They are wrinkly, spotted, old-looking.

I use my hands a lot, and I normally don't care so much how they look, but I do care that perhaps I am wearing them out too quickly. For example: I garden and hand wash dishes daily, and I never wear gloves for either.

I tend to notice other people's hands. I think hands tell a story about that person. I remember my mother's hands. The last time I saw them was when she was 35 years old.  I don't remember her ever having a manicure. I don't remember her ever wearing gloves when she used her hands either. She too was very creative. She too relied on her hands a lot. She too liked to sew like I do. She too liked to garden like I do. Her hands looked like mine.

My father in law's hands; I loved his hands. They were big, wrinkly, strong, bruised up or cut up, very rounded fingers. I don't remember him ever using gloves either.

I always cringe when I see pictures of my hands. I get embarrassed. I try to crop them out of photos many times. I shouldn't do that. My hands are a very important part of me. My hands tell a story. My hands send out loving messages sometimes stronger ones than my eyes or words can. My not manicured, non-painted nails, scruffy, rough, wrinkly spotted hands. For as much as my hands have done for me, they don't look so bad. My hands. I appreciate them. I want my hands to hang in there with me.

This is my hand holding my Sarah's hand. She loves to hold hands. We were outside in my patio. I was babysitting her while mommy went grocery shopping. Sarah began to get fussy towards the end, so I helped her out with 2 of her favorite things: to be outdoors and to hold hands. She was ok then.