Whose hands are these that rest prim and proper on my lap? My vanity, like the lady I no longer wish to be. with nails like caps atop each one. Unbreakable, when I didn’t bite them. Delicious at times; too good to give up. Ragged when life was ragged, or polished to hide my sins. These days my fingers point willy-nilly. The church wobbles, the steeple askew, My naked nails are ridged and pocked, an LA road after the rain. The milky-white skin spotted and veined like a fallen leaf. Granny fingers, granny hands, but for my middle fingers which somehow remain intact for this unlady-like lady of a certain age. My “tall man birdie” still straight and proud, “Take that,” crazy tailgate drivers, customer non-service folks, to a world gone berserk with anger and rage. Then, there are my pointer fingers. In days past, my “Pointer Finger Wags” were famed. A prelude to the “I mean business scold.” “Bad dog, bad dog, You pee’d on the rug;” A finger that would make a teen-aged son pay attention- At least for a moment. Retired are the pointers’ wagging scold. The dog long-gone, the son now grown. My fingers, with their mates, have found other joys, A poke, a tickle, silky grandchild hair, Scraping up the last little bits of chocolate from a bowl. And, best of all, the touch of another’s hand on my own.