Our hands tell the story of our lives. Pampered or scarred, young and smooth, or old and wrinkled. Seeing the marks and lines bring back memories causing me to think about where they have been and where they will be.

I remember my mom commenting about how old her hands were starting to look when I was about ten. Looking at them I remember thinking she was crazy. All I saw were her hands not the story behind them. Now I know what she was talking about. Looking down I see the starting of age. Comparing them to my daughters they look old and used, next to my sons they look ancient.

On the surface there are lines and scars. My fingers starting to slowly twist. No matter how hard I scrub there is dirt around my nails. My palms are slightly calloused and rough. The backs of them starting to darken from the sun and taking on a more leather-like appearance. A small scar between my little and ring fingers reminds me of a car accident. My thumbprint marked from kitchen knives. The ring on my left hand a steady reminder of my marriage. Another scar on the back of my hand from a barbed wire fence. The rough texture a contrast to my sons delicate skin as I rub his back at night and snagging my daughters hair as I braid. Each element telling my story.

Looking at them I wonder what will be added to the story. Will I strike it rich and have them transformed into elegant beauty? Will I come on hard times, further enhancing the lines and scars?  Will they continue to steadily pick up the bits and pieces that are who I am now? I constantly worry that they will fail me in some way. My fingers one day refusing to be bent or straightened. The strength gone, never to return. What will happen then?

I wonder what my mom thinks of her hands now and if she looks at mine and sees the age? Do my children see it or are they youthfully blind to the aging process that will one day tell a story on their hands too?

When I look at my mothers hands now I can see the age, but more than that I see the love, compassion, and kindness that she uses her hands to spread. Each line and scar a reminder of the years spent creating her story. Mom thank you, thank you for looking at your hands and making me aware of what they really hold.