I cradle a reflection of my hands,  
The same fingers and nails,  
I've looked down upon,  
My entire life,  
 
The same long, spindly fingers,  
The same protruding veins,  
How eerie it is to see,  
Your own hands,  
two generations older.  
 
I wonder how much life she has lived,  
To earn the wrinkles on her skin,  
 
How often have these hands,  
Tried to catch Bubbles out of the air,  
Or how often have they driven,  
With the sunroof down,  
Trying to grab the stars from the sky?  
 
How many gifts did these hands unwrap  
On every Christmas and birthday,  
How many songs has she played  
From the strum of her guitar,  
Did her younger hands caress her lovers cheek,  
As I do with mine?  
 
How excited I am to have the wrinkles of every adventure  
Written on my skin,  
 
And the freckles of every sunny day  
Marking the shadows of my fingers,  
 
And the ache of every birthday  
Stiffening up my wrist.  
 
Until my hands are a testament,  
To the life I've lived.