Today I look at my old, wrinkled, shaky hands in disgust how I have chosen to use them in my life.
I agonize over how many times I had shoved someone aside in hurried ambivalence or flipped a stranger off.
For words I wrote intending to hurt someone, or scratching, hitting or punching someone who didn’t deserve it.
I look at the veins protruding out of my thin flesh like cold, icy rivers.
I ponder over how many times I had thrown my hands up in the air in defeat, and how many times they had cradled my head as I cried far into the night.
I look at them now, worn and frail and weak, wondering then how I had used them for good.
How many times had I lifted another person up, or shook someones hand in greeting or gratitude? Finally writing my mother a letter after all this time, or caressing someones cheek with one hand while wiping away a tear with the other?
I reflect on instances of opening a door for someone, or feeling coins jingle in my pocket as I approached a hungry homeless person, and deciding to give them a few dollars instead.
How many hands did I hold in mine, how many times did I use them to touch someone in re-assurance or passion or in simple human kindness?
I look at my wrinkled, shaky hands no more in disgust, but in appreciation.
And wonder how I might use them to help someone else today.