The Thinker

    The skin on his arms caught my eye today. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands; the skin was caught between the pulling of muscles stressed by inactivity and the downward push of the world on his shoulders. It wrinkled. Dry and soft, the skin wrinkled.  
    Twenty-three years and I’ll have his forearms. Mine might look a little different; less hair, more feminine, but they’ll have been strengthened by the same activities, weakened by the same cares. The tendons of my arm will exercise as his do, typing, writing, drawing thoughts of the world from the air that weighs upon it. The muscles of my arm will build as I lift burdens he once lifted. I train to someday hold my own weight and the weight of others, even his. The sinews of my arm will be taut from pulling back bow strings as we strain to meet our aim. The skin of my arm may be grabbed by hands much smaller than mine, yet belonging to me, like I once grabbed his. Twenty-three years. In less than twice my life I’ll have his arms.
    Truth be told, his skin doesn’t look bad. I’ve seen much worse on people his age. Softer, drier. I’ve seen the look, the loss of elasticity, like old nylons that sag, on older arms. His isn’t quite there yet. His arm does not yet compel me to reach out to hold it. Mommom’s arm does. Hers is a compelling arm. It compels you to offer your own, as she wobbles a little with each step. So you offer your arm and suddenly the soft, wrinkled skin imbibes you with the love and warmth that she’s given - emitted to everyone around her. It feels like she is doing you the favor by taking your offered arm and leaning towards you while making a witty comment in your ear that only you can laugh at. No, his arm is not like Mommom’s.
     His arm is also not like Poppop’s on whom you can’t see the wrinkles for the hair. When I look closely I can see wrinkles along the scars, canyons where no hair grows, bleached white by the sun. I asked about the scars once. Poppop got very quiet. “I was bear hunting, one day, when I was a lad. And we got into a wrestling match, the bear and me. He grabbed my arms, and I grabbed his and the first one to get the other to the ground won. Mr. Bear forgot to clip his nails that day and we struggled so much that his claws ran right down my arm. I finally got him to the ground, but that is why you must never wear fur.” I asked about the scars another time. “One night I had to rappel down the walls of a POW camp with a broken hip. The bastards put shards of glass sticking out of the cement walls. Never let yourself get captured.” The most recent time Poppop said they were from vehicular assault. “I stood in the middle of the square, and made the tank stop with my bare hands. But then they had the pull the tank off my hands and the bent metal scratched a little. Never let them stop your protest.” Those arms could still stop a tank.
     His arms aren’t that strong, nor that soft. His arms hold books. He holds the books close to him. I wanted in his arms once so he offered me a book. Because had been in his arms, I took it. The book was warm and smelled like him. Or was it that he smelled like the book? I read to find out what it was in his arms. He holds pastures and seas, creation and evolution, entire systems of constellations and worlds that never existed outside of his hand. As the skin on his arm softens he seems to soften his grip on the books. He gives them more freely, gives thoughts more freely, gives his time more freely.
     Twenty-three years, my arms are going to look like his, holding the same books, constellations, worlds. I hope, though, that my skin softens sooner than his. I want to give sooner; let thoughts and time slip out earlier. Twenty-three years is too long to go without wrinkles inviting others to touch my arm, softer, drier, looser, skin that entices small hands to reach up. Perhaps if I train my arm enough it can carry both books, and the burdens of others.  
    The skin on his arms caught my eye today. Elbows on his knees and face in his hands; the skin was caught between the pulling of muscles stressed by inactivity and the downward push of the world on his shoulders. It wrinkled. Dry and soft, the skin wrinkled. I wanted to reach up and touch it.