My Hand is Old

My Hand is Old

My hand is very small, the size of a baby’s hand. It has very tiny fingers and dainty little nails, just like a baby’s hand would. It slowly grows larger. Previously pink little creases become solid and worn. When I clench my fist or clutch at what slips away, the veins are pronounced. They bulge and flow red and blue.

Soon the rigidity of my skin will recess to softness. Solid wrinkles and lines will split into numerous flimsy crevices that drip as the movement becomes more rigid. The knuckles will swell into rocks, and will grind and crack with every extension. I wait for it to hurt.

February 28, 2011 | Categories: Birth, Birthdays, Death, Fiction, The Human Condition, Waiting | Tags: Arthritis, Dying, Emo Fiction, Growing Old, Hand Problems, My Birthday | Leave A Comment »