My hands.

The fingers are long, gently curving, tapering to rounded, broad tips with fat pads and prints like canyons. The nails are set deep into each finger, tracing just short of the edge, where each philangie begins it's curve to the underside. Clean, tan, freckled on each scarred knuckle, faint hairs trace thier ways along the crests of each vessel that weaves it's way just beneath the surface. Shallow lines start at the knuckles, and wander to the pale underside, where they deepen, crease, and fold into one another into a vast map that even my memory cannot hold. Begin with one line, though, and you'll eventually trace them all, and arrive at the center, where all the lines converge and split, branching thier ways outward again.
A ring, on the finger of the same name of the left hand. It's tarnished, grey, it's letters still visible outlined in their inset blue shield. CTR, like a family crest.
Another, on the mid finger of the right hand, deeply tarnished and corroded before it's time. Faint etchings trace it's surface, winding like vines round and round the finger, branching faint silver leaves where now there is copper, spots of black reminding that it once was another kind of beautiful...
My hands. Piano player's hands... hands that have learned to write, swim, type, and hold fast... that have learned the loving touch, to form a fist, and to hold onto the most ephemeral things. Hands. Two of them. And they're mine, inexplicably mine