One day my hands will look like my mother’s— and I wonder if I’ll ever notice the progression.
My daughter will place her hand beside mine, comparing landscapes as though the veins and wrinkles etched across my palms were foreign elements, strange and distant.
When the years have piled high, and I can finally say I’ve been old far longer than I was young,
perhaps I too will place my hand beside my granddaughter’s— and study the difference like a language I was once fluent in.