The Hands of Time

I have a small tube of Glysomed on my desk, left over by a former employee who did not seem like the type of person who would would have cared about chapped knuckles. As I applied what little lotion was left from the tube onto the dry cracked skin on the back of my hands, I recalled that last week I had held in my hand the skin of one younger and newer than I. Even after exposure to the rough sand, bruising ball, and the burning sun her skin was still warm, soft and fair. Much like the skin that I once wore when I was young and insecure yet more care free.

As I look back down at the dark and rough skin covering my now moistened fingers, I am reminded by the undeniable truth: The hands of time will catch up to us all.