I have noticed the past few years that the elasticity in my skin has decreased. I can pinch the skin on the tops of my hands and it will take a few seconds for it to return back down. Age spots, wrinkles, all the signs of aging are showing on my hands. I see them in this photo and I could dwell on the imperfections I see in them. But I won't.
Instead, I will dwell on what these hands do. They create and sooth. They caress and clap. They get dirty. They turn my ideas into realities. They hold on. They grab and don't let go very easily.
These hands work. Somedays they work hard. Somedays they don't. Every wrinkle and line on them has been earned. From washing dishes to squeezing my babies. From every mundane or exciting thing I have ever done.
They are my mother's and my grandmother's hands. They are my children's hands.
They are mine.
They are aging as I am aging. Yet here they are, working just as hard for me as they ever did. I look at these hands and I see growth and seasons changing and life continuing. There is beauty in that. Such miraculous beauty.
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