Lately, I find myself looking at my father's hands more often.

There isn't a special reason for it, but I keep stopping to gaze at the wrinkles on the back of his hands.

Whether during conversations, while eating, pouring water, or holding the remote — that back of his hand particularly catches my eye.

Those wrinkles feel like a record etched with my father's past life, not just a simple mark of age.

My father has been running a body shop on the outskirts of Dallas for over 30 years.

Since the early 90s, during the early days of immigration, he worked with oil on his hands, using hammers and wrenches to repair cars.

With his friendly personality, he got along well with customers, and word spread about his excellent metalworking skills, allowing him to establish a solid reputation.

Thus, my father made a living with his hands. They were rough yet honest hands.

Surprisingly, my father hardly drinks alcohol and quit smoking after a brief period in his youth.

He leads a regular lifestyle and makes sure to eat three meals a day.

Even now, he wakes up at the same time every morning, takes leisurely walks around the neighborhood, and manages his health well.

Perhaps that's why, when I see my father's face, he looks healthy, and his posture is straight.

Even in his early 60s, he is so spry that most Americans are often surprised when they see him.

"73, you say? No way."

But when I look at the back of his hands, the story changes.

The wrinkles are indeed deep.

Truly, they are several times deeper than others.

The skin on the back of his hands is sunburned and worn down by oil and dust, thin and dry.

Veins are prominent, and the thick, cracked wrinkles seem like scars from fighting against time.

The wrinkles on his neck are similar. While other areas look young, that part seems to have aged ahead of the rest.

Looking at those hands evokes a strange feeling.

He has almost stopped doing repair work now and has passed the body shop to a junior, but those hands still seem to belong to a workplace.

I am now 43 years old. I have reached the age my father was when he raised me, and I suddenly see my father in my reflection in the mirror.

Every time that happens, I think of my father's hands.

The wrinkles on the back of those hands seem to tell me, no matter how healthy and spry he is, time is passing, as if the body is the first to speak of it.

Once, I paused when I saw my father's hands holding a child.

"Did my father's hands used to be this small?"

When did they become so thin and wrinkled?

I felt a surge of emotion without realizing it.

Those hands, which used to embrace me or scold me, have now become the hands of a grandfather patting my child's back.

I realized how time comes like this.

Silently, yet deeply etched in every wrinkle on the back of the hand.

The wrinkles on the back of the hand are not signs of aging. They are patterns left by the years lived.

And I hope that someday, such patterns will bloom on my hands as well.

Like my father, simply and strongly.