The hands of a woman who still feels like a girl

My hands lie across the keys. How do I write what I am thinking? How do I say what  I feel? Will a pencil let it out? A pen? A tap on a key? How do these emotions that are swirling around in me find their way out.

The lines and wrinkles on my hands reveal the hands of a woman but I still feel like a girl. Knuckles, veins, tired skin. Nails clipped and short because my hands are never without something to do. They have felt their way to here to now.

Is there anything more intimate than hands? Interlocked, interwoven, interlaced. That surge of chemistry and empowerment when hands are together. Hand shakes, high fives, holding doors, carrying bags, lifting, washing, drying, caressing, holding, feeling.

Our fingertips these brave feelers at the end of our limbs like strong wanderers. Touching, sensing, interpreting. The amalgamation of touch. I’m afraid to leap but I do it anyway, arms and hands outstretched showing me the way. Loss and despair. Aging and time. Connection and disconnection. Touch, feel, find your way. Thumbs up. I love you. A world of conveyed emotions through these hands. Splinters cuts scrapes.

My hands are getting older. And I guess, so am I.