The Map of Years

I was washing when I saw them,

the veins across my hands,

the way the skin has drawn them

up to the surface, and

I can't remember when

this happened, when

the lines around my eyes

deepened like old scars,

when my face became the size

of all the years, all the cars

I've driven, all the time

that's marked me from inside

out. I used to look

at my hands and see

someone young, someone who took

things for granted, who'd be

forever unlined, forever

the same. But I was never

going to stay. The mirror

shows me now what I've become—

not worse, just clearer,

a body keeping sum

of all its seasons, all

its small decay. And it's all

I am now, this vessel

of ordinary time,

this skin that will settle

deeper into lines,

this map that's finally

showing me exactly where I've been.