It is unusually bright here this morning, and as I was typing the last part of my fiction serial earlier, I noticed something.
It was something I didn’t like.
I have the hands of an old man.
Thin, papery skin, heavily wrinkled. Visible veins, and numerous red blotches probably caused by a lot of ice-scraping yesterday, as I defrosted a freezer. The slightest impact with the side of the appliance as I was scraping caused almost immediate bruising.
My hands have never been that big, but now they look puffy around the finger joints, and the sides of my wrists display a definite swelling that feels soft to touch. But my wedding ring feels loose, and is easy to slip on and off.
I am far from ancient, by modern standards. If I make it to next March, I will be 68 years old. But my hands are getting ahead of the calendar, and already look to be in their late seventies.
I took a photo of my right hand, and was going to add it to this post to illustrate what I mean.
But I didn’t like it, so you will just have to imagine.
It was a photo of someone else’s hand, as far as I could tell.
The hand of an old man.