Under bright light, there they are again, close
up upon my desktop, two stark reminders
of my long ago-departed grandfather's hands,
that now I have reluctantly inherited. Stiff and
painful just as his must have been while nearing
his own inevitable end.
Hard used-weathered and bony, liver spotted
with nearly transparent skin, vains clearly
visible, wrinkled derma like aged yellowing
parchment paper. Fingers having grown
untrustworthy of dexterity and strength, not
my hands I recall from even ten years ago.
I loved my Granddads hands, they fit
his other features; gentle, comforting and
reassuring. I knew them and him no other
way, he was an old man even when I was
a baby.
Now my hands and face viewed up close are
becoming bitter daily reminders of my own
precious and fleeting time. The generational
cycle repeats. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
We are cast in bone and tissue, not
stone. Bone and Tissues age and
change with time, stone almost not at all.
Living with that irrefutable knowledge,
now that is the challenge. I wonder what
my grandchildren see in my hands, seeing
through their young eyes have I always
been only old, just as my Poppy was to me
I suppose.
