My hands look different. Shinier, with more lines on my palms. Softer, with a better grip.
Maybe it's the lotion and the stickiness of that grapefruit I hurriedly inhaled 20 minutes ago. Maybe.
Or maybe I'm changing and my hands are changing with me. I haven't looked at my hands in a while; do they adapt, like your face?
Do my hands react to what I choose to use them for? Do they hate me or love me, depending on how I mold my life? With these hands, I mold my life. They've seen so much, touched so much, been there for me always and kept me safe. Kept themselves safe. Maybe they're moving on as I do. Maybe.
Maybe they grow and change with me, preparing to keep me safe once again. And again. Maybe.