But my hands look old. Their multi-linear surfaces seem to hold the memories of generations of hard work. My palms look like an intricate road map that no reader could make sense despite a key or detailed legend. Fingers appear to carry the identifications of all my past lives with all its whorls, swirls, and loops in the tips. And my knuckles are the wastelands of a boxer's knotched belt, with deep etched marks accentuating their existences.
They age me without grace or feminity. My mother's hands. My daughter's. And no doubt my lola's and all the women in the matriarchy of me.
Perhaps the hands bear witness to our struggles to earn our places on this earth. We, the youthful looking women of my lineage, must use our hands to survive the physical and emotional toils. Strong hands that eventually succumb to arthritis in seniority and tell the story of use.
We keep our fresh faces, perhaps those our signs of free spirits that endure; but our hands....Our hands we willingly sacrificed.