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September 2020
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December 2020

I looked down at my hand which was draped palm-down on the book I was reading. What I saw was crepe-like skin gathered at the base of my thumb and soft wrinkles pooling around my knuckles. What I saw was my mother’s hand. What I saw was the merging of my mother’s and father’s hand. What I saw was my grandmother’s hand. My nose stung and my eyes watered. I blinked back a tear. What I saw was, again, my own hand. What are the tears? I asked. Yeah, that surprised me too, I said. Are you sad when look at your hand? No. Afraid? No. I looked again at my hand. My strong, long, lined, graceful, feminine, aging hand. I perused the corrugated map of lines on my palm and marveled at the deep life there. The tears are acknowledgment, I said. Appreciation. Love. All of that from looking... Read more →