Hands of Love

I hold his hands in mine. Despite the visible signs of aging they still maintain their special beauty that I love so much. Their elegant shape, the long, delicate fingers, but most of all the energy of life they have always conveyed. Their sweet scent fills my nostrils as I bring them to my lips and softly kiss them.

As a child, these hands enchanted me. I watched in awe as I saw them bring forth magic tunes from a violin or a piano, or convert a piece of candy wrapping or scraps of paper into a little doll, a bird or flower. I was fascinated by the different shapes these hands took...a flying eagle, a lion’s mouth, an old man, as I sat wide eyed listening to tale after tale… transported from one magic world to another. I was captivated by how they worked on wood, leather, and glass creating endless works of beauty, how they cared and nourished all types of plants transforming our home into a virtual greenhouse. They were hands that seemed to breath life and beauty into all what they touched. And as they aged they never lost their vitality nor their passion to create.

Even as his illness progressed and he lost motion in most of his body, his hands remained alive. They would reach out to touch me as I sat by his bedside, finding my arm and pressing it gently. He could speak no more and hardly see, but his hands spoke many words: I’m still here…don’t worry...I’ve had a great life...not afraid to go…I love you…

I gently let go of his hands and take a last look at them as they rest motionless on his chest. They are lifeless now and wet with my tears. My heart is heavy. I know I will never see them again...those hands of creation…hands of love.