The left hand

Today I have seen for the first time the hand of an old man. It has been while reading one of the stories that Ishiguro has included in his ‘Nocturnes’.

Almost without realizing it, turning one of the pages, I have come face to face with the arid relief of my skin. On the back of my hand has appeared the senile hair that randomly populates the semi-toughen folds of this part of my body, as well as some accumulations — of fat according to the dermatologist — with the appearance of warts that have been established with total impudence between the knuckles and the wrist.

Porca vacca! I said to myself. I had to calm down and I have quickly thought that the texture that my left hand presents (I have not dared to compare it with the right one) is the result of the 2.5 dioptres that thicken the lenses of my close-up glasses. A little disappointed, I have taken off my optical aids and stopped reading.

From my Borstal

LDR