I remember tracing the lines of her veins,
the hills they made in her thin skin,
purplish flesh and wrinkled hands.
I loved the way
the vein gave
under the gentle pressure of my finger
and thinking of what my hands would look like
when, at last, I was old
and sat
with a child in my lap
letting them explore the map of my wrinkles
and slow the river of my veins.
Each winter
my knuckles remind me I am a year older.
At each joint
the skins darker and dryer
and the wrinkles deeper.
I have longed
for slender fingers and painted nails,
but I find such pleasure now,
seeing the age in my hands.