Yesterday I came to the wild realization that my hands are beginning to look more grown up. The soft doughy layer of skin that once surrounded my fingers has thinned out considerably, and as I examined my hands I almost couldn’t believe what I saw. Currently my right hand is healing from cat scratches, although it seems like it’s almost always recovering from some sort of accident, and the left one is always in pretty great condition. It occurred to me that one day I will look down at my hands, and I won’t be able to remember what they used to look like when I was young, whether they were soft and doughy, or rough and hardened. I wonder how much they will look like my mother’s hands, and whether my fingers will grow thinner as I age, and if my rings will still fit as I grow older.

All of these thoughts left me with an eerie feeling, like someone pulling back the curtain on a window and catching a glimpse of an unfamiliar face before realizing it was just their reflection staring back. Sometimes I catch little glimpses of my past self and my current self, appearing in the same time and space through some sort of glitch in the matrix. Every time this happens I am reminded of how resoundingly painful it is to remember what once was, juxtaposed with what now is.

The past sometimes has a wicked way of warping time and casting gorgeous amber hues over otherwise dull and dreary situations. Separating memories with reality is a very demanding process, albeit an extremely important one in this case. After all, there’s no use in chasing the past, especially when there is so much to look forward to in the future. Yes, there will be a day when all of me — not just my hands — will look old and withered with age, but I’m excited to see how I change, as well as seeing the ways in which I grow as a person! So I welcome these new grown up hands of mine as a sign of maturity, wisdom, and experience.