It still holds its past in the form of dents and knocks that have pitted its surface during its time of being. Displaying times I have no knowledge of. I use the wood to help my journey. I allow my hands to age, elasticity is lost, hairs grey slowly and fingers fatten. The nails do not grow, just pass from transparent above the bed into opacity.
Liver spots shape themselves, islands of pigment in yellow tinted skin.
The web between first finder and thumb becomes a crater as my body below the skin shrinks away from itself. My hands are old now, not as old as the wood, not as old as the box but perhaps as old as the last person who owned it. At this point we have all the time in the world. Backwards, years away and the hands are still my own. The dimensions have changed along with the proportions.