Her Hands

I watched you,
Early one Sunday morning.

Mug of coffee,
The faintest whisper
Of steam rising.

Newspaper open,
The sharp #2 pencil
Twirling in your right hand,

The weekend crossword puzzle,
Lay before you,
Waiting to be vanquished.

What occurred to me…

What captured my attention…

What resonated in my heart,

Was neither the coffee,
Nor crossword puzzle,
Nor growing light of sunrise,
Spreading across that table.

What consumed my attention,
Were your hands.

Graceful fingers.

Silky smooth skin.

Cutting through the morning air,
As you fought that puzzle.

Those hands…

Those were the hands
Holding mine on our first date.

Those were the hands
Holding mine on the day
We married.

Those were the hands
Cradling our first-born.

And, those hands…

Those hands held me,
And comforted me,
Through every storm
I have faced.

Let the pencil twirl,
And occasionally
Strike on that puzzle.

Just there,
In that moment,
You have no idea
How much you mean to me,

And how much I cherish you,
And those healing hands.


© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

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