Wrinkled hands. That’s what they are.  No denying it.  They have seen many things these hands.  They probably have more memories than my head does.  Probably have felt more as well.  I don’t hide them, I let people see the jagged nails and worn knuckles.  I let them watch every fold as my hand curls into a fist. I let them judge me not by my face, oh what a pretty face, but her hands.  Her hands are so worn, they look so tired.  As if they could sleep for days, knowing my hands never stop.  Never once would they sleep.  Always moving, wanting, touching, holding.  It is as if I live through my hands.  They are what guide me.  I am always looking at my hands.  They can do such wonders.  These hands, scarred and dry.  Marked by days past and memories long forgotten.  They could tell many stories if they could talk.  Many I do not remember.  These hands, how they know the face of another.  Although they seem to be that of an elderly they are soft as a roses petal.  They can make you feel at home.  Yes, judge me not by my face, for my face has not done much but be.  These hands have felt more than I could ever see.