After a busy day of scrubbing and cleaning and in general just prepping, it was time to take a break.
By late afternoon I was sitting peacefully in the cockpit, watching the world that surrounds our marina. It was quiet and warm, a perfect time to let my mind drift, not thinking about anything too deeply.
Idly I looked down at my hands, bright sunlight was accentuating every line, and with a bit of surprise I realized just how old they looked.
By late afternoon I was sitting peacefully in the cockpit, watching the world that surrounds our marina. It was quiet and warm, a perfect time to let my mind drift, not thinking about anything too deeply.
Idly I looked down at my hands, bright sunlight was accentuating every line, and with a bit of surprise I realized just how old they looked.
I never thought of my hands as old, I don’t like to think of any part of me as getting old. True, I’m rarely at a mirror to see what wrinkles may be forming or where the hair is thinning. But my hands, I see them all the time.
And they were looking old.
Twisting them back and forth I smiled at the scars, some remembered, others a mystery. If they could only tell their story of things touched and felt.
Despite appearances, these are talented hands.
My fingers can place a washer and nut on the blind side of a 1/4 inch bolt, turn it the right way, and then slip a box-end wrench over to finish the job, all with my eyes closed.
My hands caress the one I love with pleasure and tenderness, no words needing to be spoken, because they are also loving hands.
I’ve always believed that human hands are magic things, but mine are getting old. Even though I feel this every day, I won’t let it slow me down. With a hot cup of coffee to warm them, these old hands, weathered from life, still have plenty of years left in them.
And they were looking old.
Twisting them back and forth I smiled at the scars, some remembered, others a mystery. If they could only tell their story of things touched and felt.
Despite appearances, these are talented hands.
My fingers can place a washer and nut on the blind side of a 1/4 inch bolt, turn it the right way, and then slip a box-end wrench over to finish the job, all with my eyes closed.
My hands caress the one I love with pleasure and tenderness, no words needing to be spoken, because they are also loving hands.
I’ve always believed that human hands are magic things, but mine are getting old. Even though I feel this every day, I won’t let it slow me down. With a hot cup of coffee to warm them, these old hands, weathered from life, still have plenty of years left in them.
Cool, eh?
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