Signs of age
This is my hand. It is not my mother’s hand.
When I turned 40, my current college students weren’t even born.
When I was little we had a milkman who left paper-lidded glass bottles of milk in a metal box outside our back door.
Also, my mom ground her own hamburger with a hand-cranked grinder that clamped to the kitchen table.
I played dress up with her old hoop skirt.
Sometimes I still say, “Good heavens!”
It takes all four of us to remember the score when we change sides in tennis.
My Aunt Lucy who took me on nature walks was born in the 19th century.
To find my birth year I have to scroll down so far.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 16: 119 words, TOTAL = 2644; 57,356 remaining
9/12/2019 09:38:32 pm
I love this.
9/13/2019 10:55:38 pm
9/12/2019 10:31:01 pm
It's a pretty hand, aged though it may be. And it writes a beautiful blog!
9/13/2019 10:56:26 pm
Aww, thanks, Carl!
9/13/2019 01:46:58 am
I was thinking recently that my hands (also) remind me of my mom’s 85 years old hands... I blame a part of the dry winkles to the dry weather in LA.
9/13/2019 10:57:35 pm
I kind of like being reminded of my Mom, right there in my hand!
9/14/2019 11:49:23 am
It’s a keyboardist’s hand.
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Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.