old hands and long thoughts

i ride the bus a lot. every morning to school and every evening back. i guess i've never calculated it, but probably more than an hour is spent in the function "passenger on a noisy big bus with many people."
it's really okay. not really a big deal.

i just think a lot when i'm on the bus. oh and stare off into space-- two days ago, i was riding the regular route, somehow had managed to snag an actual seat on the bus, for once. tall sweaty people were mashed right up to me, standing, arms holding onto the metal bars over head. it's really pretty awkward to be six inches away from all the generic huge farmer-boys. so anyway i tried to purge my head of disgusting, imagine the smell away, and stare out the window. in the car next to the bus was an image that really intrigued me. it was these hands.

okay not really those particular ones, but so similar.

suddenly, i was lost. they were so beautiful to me. so strange. they were all i could see driving that little beat-up volkswagen with little sunflower on the dash. just those old hands.

mine don't look like that.
i glance down at my own. the bus pulled ahead, and made a wide turn down the next street. sunlight filtered in thorough the window on me. so smooth. so young. they really were a lie. my hands don't tell my story. they don't tell my life yet.

...they say that the first place you can tell a woman's age is by her hands. centuries of hand creams and lotions haven't been able to stop times progress on little wrinkles and furrows, made as the body looses it's natural fat stores there.

it's a sign you are dying.

i mean, not that you are going to physically keel over in the next five minutes, just that that you are following the natural order of things. an external sign that we aren't here forever. it is strange to think that you start to die the minute you are born.

i love old hands, they are so textured and crinkled and carry proud stories of life in another time. age spots and veins are like growth rings on a tree to me, telling quiet reflections of life.

i guess that they just remind me of eternity.

though they remind me we aren't here forever, they remind me that there is a Forever. though there is death in me, there is life in Him.

Then saith he to the man, Stretch forth thine hand. And he stretched it forth; and it was restored whole Matthew 12:13