I splashed cold water in my face to refresh myself after a long night’s sleep. The fingertips caressed the skin as they slid from the forehead to the chin. I opened my eyes and could feel my body come to life.
I looked down at the hands and felt as if I didn’t recognize them—pale, thin and veinous. Could it be the same pair of hands that had served me so well throughout the decades? The hands that had worked long days at the carpentry workshop and written so many poems on long dark winter nights.
I sat down at my desk, grabbed a pen in one hand and used the other to hold still the sheet of paper. The words flowed from the pen and a new stanza line appeared after another. I definitely recognized the handwriting and the poetry style was the same as I had developed over the years.
They were most likely my own hands after all.
