Skin and Bones

Strange. I've been working outside, spring cleaning our clutter-challenged back patio. Wearing my big leather gloves. Hauling, sweeping, scrubbing, hefting, burning off an afternoon funk. That worked pretty well; I'm feeling better. The strange part happened when I came in just now for a drink of water and to write myself a note about things to pick up from Home Depot (hose reel, gas can). I slipped out of my work gloves and in the kitchen sink lathered up with dishsoap. My hands felt shockingly tiny, the merest most delicate bones. So insubstantial, fragile. I don't recall having that sort of feeling before. I felt as if I were washing a child's hands. Even now, as I sit here, typing, I stop and rub my hands and they seem so very small. They look fine. It's only how they feel. I'm trying to take it in. I'm sure I'm about to wax philosophical. But these hands have other work this evening besides blogging, so I guess I'll keep these ruminations to myself.