the hands of a lady

   i was washing my hands in the kitchen sink the other day. noticing bits of broccoli in the drain that i needed to collect and throw away, and paint that still needed to be scraped off the sink from weeks ago. my hands were not in focus. yet those hands were my focus.  those hands were some one elses. red. cracked. dry, even under the running water. tired, even while moving briskly so as to make bubbles of the soap. i stared at the silver messy sink so i couldn't see these hands for a little longer. i didn't recognize them as my own. no. these were the hands of someone older then i. the hands of someone doing task's often. cooking. cleaning. drawing. painting. making ponytails in baby soft hair. patting the back of a small boy who just needs a little bit of encouragement. swiping quickly over bed linens so as to get the wrinkles out. making piles of clean, fresh bath towels to then place in a hall closet. briskly chopping fresh basil in the kitchen before a meal. reaching for another hand, similar in task-weatherdness but only more so and bigger, belonging to their mate. these hands. they don't look like mine. they look like the hands of a lady. i focused my eyes and placed my gazed upon my hands. they were in fact attached to the end of my arms. 'it's finally happening,' i think with a smile to myself. i am growing up.