Looking down, my hands are young. Little nails. Little fingers. Skipping on the keys. Smooth, dainty skin. I am six. From farther up I'm looking down at my hands upon the keys. Bigger reach, longer nails. A little polish Dancing on the keys. Taut, youthful skin. I am sixteen. Looking down, my hands are shopworn. They play the music that comes through me. My fingers waltz on the keys now. Drying, aging skin. I am fifty. My gaze descends to my hands resting on the keys. As I lift and lower, music emerges, But alas, my fingers lumber on the...