There are elevated thick spots
Directly beneath the finger next to the pinky…
From my share… and on occasion
Other folk’s shares of
Hard work… and
I don’t mind…
These aged hands… that
Once gestured prettily to
Wave away a swoon… or
Disperse the heat… or
Point a direction… or
Pat him on his chest while
Girlishly giggling “boy you so craaazy…”
Now with their
Raised and rugged veins… a
Narrative of my life… like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands… and
I don’t mind these aged hands… that have
Patted the babies… and
Held faces to kiss away tears… and
Spanked some tail so the police would never have to…
No-  I don’t mind…
These hands that have
Stroked… and
Rubbed… and
Massaged…and
scrubbed… are now
No longer so pretty…
No longer so dainty…  but like
My Mother’s hands… and
My Mother’s Mother’s hands…
Each line is a tale of it’s own… and
Every ache an account of the past… and
Every callous a memoir… and
I have lived a love filled life… and
The years have given so much to these aged hands …so
I don’t mind…