Hands

I watched her at the sink

wringing out the cloth

and it hit me that I'd never really looked

at her hands before.

Not like this.

The spots are new.

Age spots. Sun spots. Time spots.

Whatever you want to call them.

The veins stand up now like they're trying to escape.

The wedding ring is loose—she has to twist it

to keep it from sliding off.

She moves carefully.

Like her hands might break.

Like she's learned something about fragility

that I haven't learned yet.

The knuckles curve a certain way.

I don't remember them curving that way.

I don't remember her being this careful

with her own body.

I'm watching her wash a coffee cup

and suddenly I'm aware of time

in a way I've never been aware of it before.

The way it moves through skin.

The way it changes what we touch with.

The way a hand can go from young

to old

while you're not paying attention.

She catches me looking

and asks if something's wrong.

I say no.

But I'm still staring at her hands.