My hands.

My hands are becoming old hands, weathered with work and time. There is dirt bordering the fingernails and splits all the way through, matching blisters and enhanced lines from the stress that they've been through. My hands are turning old, my friends, and I fear that I will too. The parting ways between child's youth and a life of work are showing. My eyes are dimming as well, it seems, less life than there once was.