All Hands.

Sometimes, your big hands would touch me- reach out and stroke my back.

Felt like heaven, strong and soothing, Tracing softly over fading tan lines.

Before returning to other things.  

Mostly, they've built our home; drilled, hammered, knocked and nailed. 

Once, they painted me a chair- you were so busy that week. 

I missed your hands. 

Following plans and schedules, they've washed and loaded, scrubbed and folded, but rarely, have they reached out for me. 

Those hands have carried our weary children over hillsides, saving sanity on muddy Sunday afternoon scrambles.

They held mine sometimes, your huge fingers threading through- always hurt a little, a stretch for my fingers to fit yours, But I never minded.

There were times I cried.

And I'd find you eagerly scrubbing down tiles or counter tops to make it go away.

Next, you'd pour tea. 

Place a mug on a coaster

And leave.  

All hands,

Sans heart.  

 

And now, your hands have gone from our home, there's a hole where they once tasked for us-

But, there has always been a hole.

Your mind rests where your hands are.

And so you fade away, forgetting. 

I make my own cups of tea now. 

You put on a load of washing this morning when you collected the children; what has changed?

Because we needed more than hands,

More than painted chairs

More than you know.