Old Friends
Sometimes I look at my hands
old friends
and see my mother
or a stranger
mute beings
somehow attached to me
blindly in my service
poor things.
I study them in wonder
like something you’d see in a museum
safely behind glass.
Skin loose and crepey now
but still the palm spread wide–
strength and competence.
And no matter how faithfully
they’ve served me
part of me knows
their warranty will expire.
And then I see them
with something like love
as you’d look at your aging dog
limping with that bad hip
knowing
that last visit to the vet
is coming soon.
9 thoughts on "Old Friends"
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they say hands are hard to draw but you’ve done an excellent job here
Wonderful poem. Full of emotion for me. I, too, find myself examining my hands, so the poem resonates, and then the last stanza — am facing that prospect with my big dog. Thank you.
Glad it resonated
I love the stages you go through and “their warranty will expire” does such heavy lifting! Beautiful!
Sylvia, thanks for this
You describe these hands so finely and in facets–artists say that rendering hands are the hardest part but you made it look easy!
Thanks Shaun for this compliment
You draw these hands well.
I look at mine and see my grandmother’s hands.
Pam, maybe it’s universal?