Looking At My Hands

My hands, when I look at my hands, why do I see an eternity in them, all deeply lined and knurled up, ghost like. I'll be eighty two shortly but, by the palms of my hands, I only see something ancient, dangling mummified, at the end of my arms. It is immaterial that my hands ache constantly even though I take increasing dosages of the drug, Neurontin, thought to lessen pain from neuropathy brought on by diabetes. Advanced age, wrinkles, and new pains seem to go together quite nicely in their pursuit of finality. Although people don't seek nor wish for finality, the end is out there for each of this planet's population so -do your best with the time you have-.

Ronald C. Downie