We observed my 76th birthday a few days ago. Vicki invited friends and family over and they had a nice time. I love them all. After the good-bye hugs were hugged and all was quiet, I sat alone at my desk, and I noticed my hand. I began thinking about the 76 years we’ve shared. Remembering the babies it’s carried, women it’s caressed, and yes, the glasses of beer it has raised. It all seems so far away.
I have terribly neglected and abused my hands, along with the rest of my body. I worked them hard. I should be happy they’ve stuck by me all these years. But I’m kind of pissed. The muscle in my thumb is atrophied from disuse due to the arthritis pain. The skin is wrinkled, veins protruding - the hard callouses and grease-packed nails are memories – like so many others. My hands, like the rest of my body, are betraying me, turning me old when I’m not ready. I look at my hand and it’s suddenly, inexplicably the hand of an old man. How could this be?