i sat on the rattling tube, being transported from one place in london to another.
often, when reading a book isn’t attractive, i observe.sometimes i look at ears.
sometimes i'm fascinated with eyes.
sometimes all things red hold my attention.
on this day i looked at the back of hands.
there were dark, chocolate brown hands, pinky white hands, ebony black hands, tawny golden hands.and on many of these hands were the maps of a lifetime etched by veins. the veins danced across the bones and joints. they curled and burrowed. they marched and flowed. all of them bearing the look of years.
many hands were gnarled and swollen.others were yet smooth, though showing the blue marks of veins.others were wrinkled.others were strong, well-used.some were frosted with tufts of hair.all were the hands of elders.all told the story of a lifetime.