The hands of our elder make me so emotional. I can read in them all the years that have passed by, the marks of time. In each row, it seems to be printed the joy and pain. In their skin, in the texture and shape of their fingers, as an old tree roots, lies an entire life. Maybe because my parents are both still alive and keep on stepping into maturity and getting older, perhaps, again, now, like I never did before, I focus on the extraordinary beauty of the authenticity which is reflected in the mature and hardened skin of their hands, their faces, their increasingly fragile bodies.
I love the beauty of passing time that is accepted as it is. I love the spots on the skin, and the wounds in the hands of my father, a humble worker and a craftsman who taught me to love my work, and to care for life. And I love my mother’s hands, even today, when I am already 43 years old, each time she caresses me as her little boy. I truly love the authenticity in the old and withered, because its beauty is earthy, original, true, real. And I kiss their hands every time I see them because I feel it deep inside -it comes from my soul. And now I understand why kissing a hand, from the heart, is not just a gesture of love, but it is also for respect, admiration.
And I love the hands of the elder that are still working, taking care of their grandchildren, tilling the garden, cooking soup, setting the table, giving themselves after a lifetime. In these hands lies the wisdom that we must bring back. The hands that have touched the land, the people and the world, and that keep, under their skin, the memory of love made, of work done, of the past and of the pain that was healed and the one that was and still is indigestible, of moments full of meaning, and those who will never have any. And I am grateful that they are still alive and around us. There are few things on this earth that can bring me a greater sense of mystery and love.
Kisses and hugs to everyone,
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