These Loving Hands

I was on the bus the other day and this woman walked on and was standing next to me. She seemed pretty fragile and a little old and I was struck by the way the years had marked her hands. I gave her my seat and started to wonder why nobody else seems to notice the unsteadiness of the elderly. Her hands occupied my mind for quite a while. I've always been struck by wrinkled hands. I guess it comes from observing my grandparents quietly when I was child. When I was about ten years old my Nana was constantly in the hospital. I was never really allowed to visit her because my parents worried it would upset me. I was finally allowed to visit this one time just after she'd had probably her 7th heart attack in two years. The thing that struck me most that day was her hands. They were so fragile looking but at the same time so tough. All of the years of hard life, the mark of suffering of growing up in the poor part of London during the second world war, of smoking since she was a child, of constantly being ill. It was all there in her hands, in the way the lines wrinkled, the way the veins stood out, in the way her skin pulled over the bones and the way it seemed to be the only thing that was keeping her together. Looking at the woman on the buses hands made me think of all the hands I've stopped to contemplate. Of my grandfathers, of my great uncle Gordon whose hands are etched into my memory as the most caring, loving hands that I've ever held, of the men I've given my heart and body to, of the many people who've stayed long enough in my life to have made an impact. I wonder if in 50 years the stories that make up their life will be seen in their hands. I can't help but wonder where those stories will end up and if anyone else will be able to read my hands to see everything that's passed.