When the Hands of Time Make You Cry

A dialogue about aging well

Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash

I gazed at my hand, draped palm-down on the book I was reading. It surprised me when the tears came.

What I saw was crepey skin gathered at the base of my thumb and soft wrinkles pooling around my knuckles.

What I saw was my mother’s hand, the shape, and texture of her nailbeds.