Like the back of my hand

I was looking at the back of my hands earlier this week (I was in a meeting and there wasn't much else to do) when I realized I was staring at my father's hands.  Just like I found my mother's face in the mirror one day, there were my father's hands.  His hands were sturdier, of course, but still, there they were.

I remember my Grandmother's hands as being slender and she had a way of moving them when she told a story.  I can't repeat those movements when I try, but sometimes my hands will move and I see Grandma's hands and then her face.  And I can almost hear her voice.

One time I was at a Halloween party wearing a genuine kimono and a mask and some kind of covering over my hair.  I didn't think anyone would know who I was, but I remember that one boy did.  He knew me right away.  He said "It's your hands.  You have freckles on your hands."

I still do.  Even though I have old lady hands now.  Wrinkled and blue veined.   The freckles are still there.  A reminder of younger days.  

My father had freckles on his hands too.