The lines of our hands utter whispers pasts,

of struggles through their crevices,

the deep minuscules valleys that we use to grasp.

But lately I noticed, the calluses smoothed away,

the dwindling back in of delicateness,

and the neatness of nails where there were once razor edges.

As if all those triumphants and struggles,

the markings they left on appendage so contingent upon,

have been smooth away.