Notice my hands

You have to hand it to your hands.

I only ever notice my age when I see photos of my hands. I have an older man’s hands. How did that happen? Where did they come from? I have arthritis in my back, perhaps my knees, and maybe my wrists, but I like a good stretch. My beard is increasingly white, but I like this sagely visage. My hair is increasingly thin, but shearing my hair close is the best haircut I've ever had. I'm apparently shorter than I was a decade ago. That's OK. It makes me closer to the Earth. My eyesight is diminishing, so I look more closely at things and faces. I can't work to music with vocals without a loss of focus, though my hearing is fine, so watch what you say. Standing for too long takes a toll; the knees and hips are not keen on it. Yet seeing a photo of my hands is curiously what gets me thinking about my age.

I take vitamin D when I remember, to compensate for winter’s darkness. I take creatine for cognitive health and to make up for the loss of testosterone. I just started taking collagen for tendon elasticity. I stretch nightly. I practice leg strength so I can still use the crapper on my own in my dotage. I do all these things, so you'd think I was very aware that I'm closer to the ending than the beginning. I guess in reality, you're closer to the end than the beginning the moment you slip into this world. Why would it take seeing a photo of my hands to realize it?

My supposition is thus: I suffer from cognitive dissonance. I acknowledge the fact of my age, but not the meaning of it. When you see a photograph (barring corrupt manipulations), you are seeing the fact. The fact and the meaning are no longer separated by some disconnected synapse. I know that I am getting older, I see the evidence, and accept the meaning.

In my advancing years, I want to be more honest with myself and others. I want you to know something. When Tim Baker of Hey Rosetta! sings about wanting to see his mother's hands against her apron, it can bring me to tears. I can close my eyes and bring my mother's hands into sight. Long fingers with an almost willowy bend. Her hands healed, mended, peeled, cooked, cleaned, planted, and nurtured. That is one of the ways I remember her. Will anyone ever think of my hands?

My father's hands spoke of his many selves. They were strong, thick, but not large. Scarred by clean. I never remember my father trimming his nails, but they were always neat. His hands wielded tools and rend asunder roots. They also held my cheeks sweetly. Strong and tough, but with a soft touch. When my handwriting is so terrible, as it often can be, that it becomes unknowable to myself, the author, I think of how wonderfully fluid my father's penmanship was. No one talks about "penmanship" unless it's nice. The word itself sounds like the type of métier a craftsperson would apprentice to learn. Occasionally, I can muster "penmanship", but it requires forethought, something I have even less of.

I will work to improve my handwriting. I will work on maintaining well-moisturized hands, though I prefer “well-oiled". I will work on making my hands and their output memorable and noticeable. Why? Not so someone can sing about thinking of my hands against my apron. Side note, yes, I wear an apron. The wearing of a work apron by men should never become a lost artifact of the past but should remain the sign of a person doing work, work that involves dirty hands. I want my hands remembered as they are the embodiment of what I do. They enable the output of who I am.

My hands are not large. They are not lithe. They are neither soft nor rough. My hands are not of a man who hews wood or breaks stones, but of a maker nonetheless. A typist? Yes. A designer? Yes. An artist? Yes. These hands of mine are dusted with hard flour and stained with ink. They are firm, resilient, steadfast but not unchanging. My hands bring things together, not tear them apart. My hands know how to pinch salt, sand wood, smudge charcoal and knead a knotted muscle. My hands know the light brushing of a cat's nose bridge can bring calm and purrs. My hands will always clasp those I love and fend those who do me harm. My hands are who I am and say as much about me as any portrait. These are my hands and every line, wrinkle, scar, vein and blemish tells my story so yes, notice them.