My hands...

I used to look at my hands as a young kid, they always looked the same. I used them to climb trees, to play catch and to pick up rocks. They remained smooth with no wrinkles. A period of time passed that I hadn't looked at my hands, yet I continued to use them, writing, working on cars, moving rocks . When I looked at them again they were worn and wrinkled, lines everywhere, with deep grooves, telling my story.