My hands are not what they were once upon a time. The skin, once soft and supple enough to wordlessly communicate my love to my children, is wrinkled and thin. My great grandchildren are fortunate to be infants yet, unable to complain about the roughness of the hands that hold them now.

I can no longer see my hands: I can only remember what they look like. I can feel them, and it does not please me. Arthritis has damaged many of the joints, and my fingers are twisted. Veins meander among the tendons and sinews which stand in sharp relief over flesh which has lost much of its muscle. My left hand lacks its wedding ring for fear that it would fall and be lost if I wore it.

Time is unkind. I do not wish for the hands of my youth: they are forever gone.

Then my husband says my name and takes my hands in his, sweeping away the ravages of time. My youthful hands are restored to me by his warm and loving touch, recalling the day he gave me the wedding ring 75 years ago, and I realize that time has been kind.