Time and Time

Standing before the porcelain sink, cold water shocked her fragile hands. Staring at the wrinkled, pale skin, her eyes followed the creases on the palm of her hand. One by one she traced them as if she were a child again, staring at them incredulously, pondering where the years had gone. Each time her hands had been lathered with soap and cautiously washed under the tap, they felt rebirthed with a new sense of purity…yet in reality, had covered far too many surfaces. Memoires flashing across the mirror, her mind and body were transported and the once wrinkled hands returned to a recognizable youthful state.

Walking side by side with a figure who was indistinguishable, trepidation and excitement trickled down her spine as she felt the light graze of the hand next to her. Time had frozen. Paralyzed by the suspense, her nervous, moist palm was longing to be gripped. The act of holding hands had never transpired to be such an eventful affair, though, this particular moment taught her otherwise. The casual, yet intimate performance had unknowingly been rehearsed multiple times prior; safe, strong grasps from her mother, swaying arms with friends through hallways, or loose, teasing interlaced fingers between a random lover. Though in this instance, the hand she held slid into place like the last part of a puzzle, and she never wanted to let go.

Refocusing her eyes on the dry cracks that covered her skin, the memory shifted and her textured dusty leather hands resembled the surface of an aged elephant. Pottery wheels situated in the colorful room, wet hands were eager to create. After kneading the clay thoroughly, she was hunched over the throwing wheel, hands cupped around the swiftly rotating gray matter. Eyes shut, her hands manipulated the clay, guiding its malleable material blindly. Lost to the sound of the spinning wheel, the dexterous potter’s skillful fingers morphed the clay effortlessly as though they needed no guidance.

The cupped, metallic colored hands before her disappeared and once again she was standing over the porcelain sink. Reflecting on the years that had escaped her, she habitually washed her hands again, as if they had been dirtied from the memories she recounted. Her hands molded each and every experience literally and figuratively. After tender moments, she found herself attempting to preserve the ephemeral encounters; hoping they would last until her hands had been cleaned again. The appendage she frequently used, curated her identity and transpired emotion she could never have imagined; yet each evening those memories were washed away down the porcelain sink.