Her Hands

I watched her as a stranger would, just the other day.
She sat watching a movie across from me.
As I marveled at her beauty I was pleased to feel
that same excitement that drew me to her so many
years ago. Her hand gracefully rose from the position
it had been resting in and gently ran through her hair.
As she lowered it back onto her leg I remembered the
first time I saw those delicate hands.

She had come to my home after months of talking
on line. I was to be her hostess for the weekend,
along with other mailing list community members.
I knew immediately that she would be someone I
would never forget.

That evening as we all loudly prepared a meal, I noticed
her hands. It was beyond any hope I had that the flirting
we had engaged in that afternoon would lead to any more
than a weekend of pleasure. I found myself praying for more
than the fleeting touch I had enjoyed earlier that day.

She was a paramedic and a nurse. I felt below her league.
Yet there she stood, smiling at my kitchen sink washing a
plate as talk among the group carried on without reprieve.
I heard nothing as I imagined those hands touching me,
perhaps, someday…if I was very fortunate. I didn’t know
until later that her thoughts were the same. Her smile was
in honor of me. She wasn’t there to meet others. She had
come for me.

Those hands became mine, they wiped tears and gently
cradled my face as she told me she loved me for the first
time. Later I would watch as those hands became a mothers
hands. Expertly bandaging my child’s wounds and embracing
each of my children as hers.

I watched her at work as she administered medications and
helped to save lives countless times. Her movements were sure
as they expertly performed each nursing task. They held frightened
children and comforted teary parents. They hugged grieving families
and respectfully prepared the bodies of those that didn’t make it.

I watched her fingers entwined in mine as she placed a ring
on my finger and vowed to stay mine forever. I was blessed with
the task of returning those vows and swooned as I offered my
own ring onto her beautiful finger.

Her hands know my own in the way only long time lovers know
their mate. In the black of night they easily find those places
they know will bring pleasure. As they make their way down the
small of my back I still close my eyes and remember that first touch.

I imagine them aging. Becoming more delicate, skin loosening
as age greets them gently. I will remain engrossed in what time
does to her hands. Perhaps someday grandchildren will come
into our lives and they too will be blessed to be touched by those
beautiful hands and the heart that makes them move with such
grace.