She sits on the bus alone. One hand clutches her cane; the other clutches the handbag in her lap. The shoes on her feet are sensible. It is a warm day, but she wears a sweater and a scarf. Her hands are old. The backs of them are spotted with age, lined with wrinkles and protruding veins. The skin around her knuckles is swollen and sore. She wears a wedding band on her left ring finger, like her knuckles, the skin around it looks swollen and sore. Her face holds a look of sadness; it almost appears to be a permanent expression.
The bus jostles and she looks up as a hand grasps the bar above her. She sees the well manicured nails, the bright red polish. She remembers painting her nails that color when she was a young girl. She had borrowed the polish a girl down the street, Sarah something. She can never keep track of names anymore. She remembers her mother’s angry reaction when she saw them. The paint had barely had time to dry. She remembers the way her mother scolded as she rubbed her fingers raw removing the red polish. Her mother had said only tramps wear red polish, and no daughter of hers was going to be a tramp. It was the first time she had heard the word tramp. She didn’t understand what it meant at the time. She remembers how her cuticles were red for days afterward; from the polish and her mother’s scrubbing.
Since the moment she got on the bus, she has been staring down at her hands; examining each age spot, each vein, and each wrinkle. She stares at them not because they are ugly, but because to her they are beautiful. The life she has lived is written all over her hands, in each wrinkle, with each age spot, they tell a story. The problem is, these days it seems, they are telling a story no one seems to want to hear anymore.
