I watch your fingers fly over the keys, creating, pausing, changing, laughing, teaching, always with care and purpose. Your hands, so strong; corded tendons, moving to cut, hold, fasten, build, lift, place the objects we have imagined and then made real.
Seeing photos of your father, light falling on his strong hands, so like yours in strength and form. Did you know this?
Now we plant and water , tending with care the new reality of the garden as we wait. My hands help yours, but yours guide, inform, correct with firm kindness.
Two hands, strong yet so gentle, holding me, touching my scars and not pulling back, but tracing them, giving me not just pleasure, but contentment, peace. You accept me as I exist, wholly, not as I once was, but the now me.
Your hands bring to me with every movement the joy of watching them bring your mind thoughts to my world. Let me hold them.