aging

i look down and see my hands beginning to look like my mother's

the skin spotted, papery thin

i touched her hands so many times

ran my fingers softly over the veins

the skin diaphanous wings of a butterfly

her hands that once held mine

my hands that once held yours, and yours

this skin we're in doesn't last

it ripens as we speak

but inside i grow stronger

with wisdom, joy, love, and pain

needled into my veins