Hands Down

I like looking at hands.  I like imagining the world those hands have seen and the lives those hands have molded.  The road those hands have yet to travel.

When I was growing up, a large part of it was spent living in the country.  We had horses and knew quite a few people that lived that life.  The men usually wore gloves.  It wasn't for vanity, it was for protection.  Function over fashion never entered into the equation, it was just common sense. 

Throwing bales of hay or roping cattle, these were working men.  I remember looking at their hands when their gloves came off.  Weathered skin.  Calloused hands.  Nothing lining up perfectly as they had been broken in the past but continued on doing what needed to be done.  These same hands capable of being so gentle when calming a nervous horse, stroking the velvety skin of their noses, talking quietly to them until the horse lost their stiff-legged nerves and exhaled a soft nicker.  Large, strong hands absentmindedly scratching the ever-present good dog behind the ears while sitting on a tailgate at days end.

I like seeing the Mom hands of today in their never ending balancing act.  Kids and strollers and baby bags - oh my!  Snacks and drinks and things to amuse the babies all crammed into a (usually stylish) giant purse so Mom can, in-an-instant, have her hands on whatever she may need to calm the raging tide of child emotions with which she is currently dealing.  Hands making lists, hands reaching for the eternal/infernal cell phone, hands wiping "What is that?" off of faces.  Hands wrapping around little shoulders and rocking broken hearts and little hurts until everything is 'all better' again.

I like baby hands.  Skin so soft and smelling so fresh - no other fragrance like it in the world.  With dimples for knuckles, chubby little hands in their quest to wrap their whole hand around Dads' finger, hanging on for dear life while balancing precariously on still unsure legs.  And in that wondrous glance up at Dad's face, wrapping his heart around their little finger.

I like Franks' hands.  I see his hand when he reaches out to hold doors open for me; whether getting into a vehicle or walking into a building, his hand always preceding me to clear my way.  I am quietly reminded of his good manners and infinite kindness when I see those hands reach out to take whatever I may be carrying to lighten my load.  Ever the gentleman. 

When Frank and I walk, our hands, almost unconsciously, reach one for the other.  Where his end and mine begin, I can't see.  I like that we have our secret 'hand Morse code' when we are out and about.  Salesmen trying to convince us of the latest and greatest ... whatever ... a subtle little squeeze between us.  The unspoken code of 'Su-u-u-ure'.  The unseen squeeze of 'time to move on'.

I like when we lay in bed at night holding hands while the day comes to a close, quietly talking about the latest this and that ... or nothing at all.  It makes me laugh when our Pomeranian, Stanley (also known as The Chaperone), purposefully makes his way across the mattress to lay on top of our hands.  Keeping us honest.  My guess is, he likes hands, too.