Whose hands are these? Could they be mine?

Age spots and bruises bloom beneath dry skin — dry no matter how much lotion I pour onto them. These hands are old. Seventy-six years around the sun and moon.

Decades of sensory input. And yet they still function. Not with the same grace as 30 years ago, or even 20. Arthritis has distorted my knuckles. One finger now points defiantly in the wrong direction. Trying to grip tiny objects can bring me near tears. Tight jar lids require a whack to the floor and a run under hot water.

They are no longer beautiful — not in the way slender fingers grace jewelry ads or food-prep videos. They long ago outpaced the memory of my mother’s hands, then my grandmother’s. Now, an echo of my great-grandmother’s. I am the living fourth generation.

These hands.

How many things have they touched? Soft, hard, rough, smooth. Cold and hot. My newborn’s impossibly fresh skin. The fur of countless beloved cats. The curly hair of my current dog. The pliability of risen bread dough. The prickly thorns of roses. The coarse grit of sand and the stubborn soil of my vegetable garden.

These hands.

They have traveled with me. Made cakes. Cut vegetables. Mended clothes. Mixed paints. Typed thousands of pages — books, stories, letters, memories. Held bike handles steady while my children learned to ride. Curled gently around their fingers as we practiced the shape of letters.

They have gripped my kayak paddle through both rough and glassy waters. Wiped tears from my eyes in grief so deep it tore holes in my heart. Stroked my own face. Held my chin. Rolled the dice. Dealt the cards.

How many things these hands have done — and still do. Crinkly, yes. Stiff joints that complain in the morning. They need more stretching, more lotion, more care.

And yet — they still hold the paintbrush. Tap out stories on the keyboard. Knead the bread. Brush the dog. They send me constant tactile messages about the world I inhabit.

These hands.

Such gratitude I hold for them.

And yours? Tell me about their journey.