I look at my hands.
I see an older woman's hands.
The veins rise to the top of the thinning skin.
The knuckles, always prominent, seem to get broader.
Hair follicles are so obvious. Why is that?
And age spots....
Heck, I had age spots by the time I was 40.
Now I'm on the far side of 50.

There's something oddly comforting about aging.
Is it because the alternative is ... well, not aging?
In fact, not being.

I've earned the honor of talking with a young woman and having her listen to me.
She listens because I have experience.
Because I'm aged, compared to her.
And these days, compared to many I pass on the streets.

Yet age is relative.
I look at my mother, and she calls me, "Baby."
I'm her child, she says. I'll always be her child.
If I'm old, she asks me, then what is she?
Older. Getting older still. But we're all getting older....

Unless we've stopped.

copyright Linda Alexander, 2003. All rights reserved.