To Have and To Hold


After all this time, she still did not know exactly what his hands looked like. She had never studied them or noticed them really, taking for granted they would always be available for further examination, should she ever decide to be curious.
Now that time seemed to be running out, she regretted neglecting the privilege of holding them. She could see now for the first time how young they seemed and in some strange way how fragile. She marveled that they had no lines, no resistance, no sign of struggle or defiance.
No one could say really why any of this was so, and if they could, she understood this would mostly be a made up story to make her feel better, to distract her from everything she knew now she would not have, of everything she understood now, she would not hold.
In lieu of a story she would have this picture. In lieu of his hands, she would have this memory: how he sat on the bench with a child on each side and without malice or pride, folded his hands together and let her go.
Reader Comments (33)
i know this melancholy, albeit it slighty different.
thank you for sharing.
Thank you - that is beautiful.
-WW
I love loving hands. I love working hands. I love caring hands. Free hands. Fearless hands.
I have my father's hands:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/juliealvarez/2785273309/
I know my love's hands by heart:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/juliealvarez/2584440098/
I love how our daughter has his hands:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/juliealvarez/2774858341/
I loved this post. Thank you.
well written. seriously...i keep coming back to the and reading it again and again.
http://meredithwinn.wordpress.com/2009/03/06/the-thoughts-that-follow/