Hands

“You have old hands,” she said. “You don't look old, but your hands do.” I looked down at my hands. It was true. My hands looked like an explorer's map of Africa. I could see ridges and valleys and long winding paths into the interior. My knuckles were mountains and my veins were swollen rivers. There was the journey of a life etched into my hands.
“Don't worry,” she said, “they're just old-looking hands. It's nothing to worry about.”
“Old can be beautiful, can't it?” I said.
“Maybe,” she said, with a teasing smile, “maybe. It all depends.”