My hands have grown old without me. They seem a strangers hands—wrinkled, weathered, like a desert landscape eroded and seamed by arroyos. They seem roughly familiar but much older than me, as if they had lived a life other than mine. The skin drawn across the back of my hands is thin as the nest of a paper wasp. Old friends. Bookends. A newspaper blown through the grass falls on the ’round toes, the high shoes, of the old friends.
Photo attribution: espoirala