Hands Holding Time

Your palms hold the shape of every object they've ever gripped—the coffee cup from Tuesday, your daughter's small fist, the rope that wouldn't hold.

The creases are maps nobody asked for, cartography of years pressed into skin, each line a shortcut through something you survived.

Fingertips remember textures the mind discards: wool softer than it should be, the resistance of wet clay, the impossible smoothness of ice.

In the dark, your hands find the way because they've traveled these distances before, memorized the stairs by how they climb.

They move when you've forgotten how to speak— opening, closing, reaching for something that is no longer there.