Old Hand

My hands are very old. They predate me by centuries. To look at them is to look at history, yet they still perform every function that I ask of them. They are good hands and I trust them to do anything.

My hands are not smart. It took them an eon to learn just two grips, the ability to rotate, club, throw, and several millennia for us to understand how they work. They were recognizable when the continents drifted toward their present positions, yet they are older still. They predate flowers and birds, fish with lungs, and when cells originally learned to come together. In their simplest of forms, they existed as matter congealed into the cosmos, but they were still recognizable to those who could see their potential.

My hands were there, as the universe first expanded into being, old already.