Hands

 

Hauling in hay bales involves some waiting time- time to look around and think while mister pushes more bales onto my trailer. I noticed my hand resting on the pick-up steering wheel and didn't recognize it. I remember when my hands first looked like Mom's, but this hand looked like GRANDMA's! I'm 63. I remember asking Grandma Beck how old she was when I started being aware of age, and she said 65. 

I wonder if I would feel older if I were a grandma. But my friends who are don't seem old to me. If I live as long as Mom did, I have 25 years of life left. This is a chunk of time I can easily wrap my mind around. 

At 25 I was living in Pennsylvania teaching middle school English. My 40 year-0ld friend told me at about 25, you would start to realize how smart your parents were. And I did. 

At 50, I woke up to women dressed in black surrounding my bed. My crazy neighbor women came to "mourn" my youth, complete with breakfast and prank gifts like fiber pills and a sturdier bra. 

Watching one's body age is fascinating- like a made-for-TV private movie in slow-mo. The puffy yet papery and wrinkled skin. The age spots (the dermatologist said most people my age have many more than I do)! It's also a privilege to age. My brother and his smooth taut hands died at 35 years old. Hubby's first wife died at 36. 

There doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to the length of our years. The least I can do with the years I've been given is pay attention.