Hands

I always had a lot of lines, some say indicative of an old soul. I remember the kids on the playground comparing their hands to mine and wondering out loud at the wrinkles mapped across my palms.

I have my grandmother’s hands.

Working hands.

An artist’s hands.

A piano player.

Strong. And heavily lined. 

The color changes with the seasons. 

Maybe I’ll tattoo a snake here.
Watch the veins dance under its lines.

Maybe not.

I usually keep my nails short but I haven’t climbed in so long.

That’s why my veins don’t pop the way they used to.

I kind of miss that.

The light creates caverns amongst my knuckles and all I can think about is the feeling of climbing a wall.

 I miss it.

My life with those veins.

I miss her.