lesson #8: we're all getting old

I cut my hand two weeks ago.  Little slice from the middle finger-palm callous, to just above the first long horizontal line.  It might be called the life line.*  The scab's gone, just a faint mark left. Like a scar. Though I doubt this will be a life-long scar like the one on my back.  Or the one on my heel from jumping on the bed when I was seven.  Or on my shin, from learning to shave.  My knee from that first big car accident.  A temporary scar.  It makes the cut look worse than it was.

A bunion is forming, or I think that's what it would be called.  A bump on my little toe.  Right side.  Calloused and swollen, most likely, by adorable yet poorly supported shoes.  My grandmother had bunions.  Right outside toe.  Left too.

I've been referring to her as grandmother since she passed. She was Grandma. Nana. Reetz, short for Rita, her name.  Never used grandmother.  Passing, either.  Instead of death.  I guess they are both less personal.

Seventy-six.  It's hard to tell, at twenty-four, if that's young of old for a grandmother.  My dad's 57.  My mom 52.  I guess that's average.

It's a startling feeling, to understand your parents are getting older.  But I know they are, because I am.  Marks, scars, life.  The wear and tear shows.  As kids, we don't realize it, because we are still fresh.  Flexible.  Resilient.  We grow fragile.

Even in my face.  Two soft marks between my eyes. When I'm straining to see. When it's too bright outside.  When I'm giving that signature look of complete sarcastic disregard.  I know these lines.  And just recently, I realized, these will be my first wrinkles.




* Turns out, the "life line" refers to the curvy swoopy line running around the joint of your thumb.  The line I was referring to is actually the line of heart.  So, now we know, thanks to www.buzzle.com/articles/palmistry-life-line.html