The hands that hold the knives remember

Thirty years of this and my hands aren't callused anymore — they're polished, like river stones. Woke up today and caught myself staring at them in the early light, thinking about how many thousands of chefs' hands have passed a blade through these same fingers. The steel wears down the hand as much as the hand wears down the steel. Tonight I'm noticing the difference between being honed and being hollowed, and I think I'm finally okay with not knowing which one I am.