His large hand enfolded my own tentative, smaller one on our first date, a move at once assertive but reassuring.
His hands cupped my face, tenderly bestowing our first kiss, third date.
His hand on the small of my back guided me around the dance floor on prom night, and then into our life together.
His hands took mine before God, friends, and family, and placed a ring on my third finger, left hand.
His hands that I crunched with intensity every time cascading labor pains racked my body.
His hand gently held the head of our newborn, her little feet barely reaching the length of his arm to the crook of his elbow.
His hands challenged his copper-miner father’s tough hands to arm wrestling duels – winning more than half the time.
His hand deftly translated an engineer’s arithmetic scribble into precisely drafted drawings of a bridge, or a building, or a subdivision with roads and utilities.
His hand, large enough to hide a baseball and manipulate the shape of a pitch with fingers across seams, two or four, so that it would float surreptitiously by or speed swiftly past a ready batter.
His hands devoted their strength to sensual massages of my body and much appreciated foot rubs.
His hands could fix a toaster or rewire a house.
His hands could stem a bathroom flood or change a kitchen faucet.
His hands cut firewood for our fireplaces.
His hands could adjust a timing belt on an engine or change a tire with dexterity and ease.
His hands mastered every tool needed to maintain our home and cars.
His hands painted every wall in our house with sometimes two or three colors in a room, the joining place of the colors knife-edged perfect.
His hands taught our grandson to build an RC airplane and fly it.
His hands, my safe place.
His hands changed when Parkinson’s appeared with trembling that became shakes, then quakes, until he could barely get a fork to his mouth using both hands.
His hands returned to peace after brain surgery calmed the quakes.
His hands, thin-skinned with ropey blue veins near the surface now weakened, no longer able to open pickle jars or pop champagne corks with aplomb.
His hands still reach across the bed at night to rub my back, soothing unspecified tensions that hide in the crevices of my being.
wonkagranny 