Hands...

    As I write my assignment for class, my hand dancing across the pages of my notebook,  I am distracted by the sight of the pen in my fingers, pirouetting across my notebook, forming the letters which make up the words that trickle from my mind. The fingers of my hand as they clasp the pen, and direct it in its unknown ballet, show the age that is beginning to be noticeable to the eyes that view them. With all of their wrinkles on the backs and the calluses on the palms, they speak of a life that has been full of hard work and little time for the niceties like moisturizers or creams that would keep them, for a few more years anyway, smooth and soft. The nails, which are clean and kept short, are ridged curving under for some unknown reason, preventing them from being grown out long. They dance and they dance, my fingers do moving with grace and style, here a dip, there a pirouette and very soon an essay written by my fingers with their wrinkles and their calluses, assisting in the birthing of something that is me.