Hands

Steve’s hands… were my demise. My enemy. I feared his hands. I would constantly trap them with my own to keep them still. I remember watching a movie with him and holding both of them tightly saying “Let’s see if you can watch one movie without touching me.” He made it about a half hour. It was small things like putting his hand on my knee that my body registered what would happen next and it was far from enduring. We drove together once, or maybe twice. I remember thinking how he couldn’t touch me then and for the once time we would just hold hands. You know the beatles song — I wanna hold you hand. That’s what it was about for me. That’s what I wanted, but he would gaze out the window and I would finally pick up my hand and drive like driver’s ed taught me- two hands on the wheel. Not because I was being safe, but because I was sick of singing the beatles quietly feeling worse.

Sean though, he was beautiful in all senses. His hands were safe. His hands were mine. I would trace the outlines of his hands as he sat them quietly in my own hands. I would hold his hand in the car as he slowly ran his thumb along the rest of my hand. He would throw his hands on my eyes when scary things came on TV. Or he would reach for me arms open wide reaching for my sides, not my body. He would hold me tight like I was going to dissapear. His hands would fall on my face and I would lean into them. His hands were my comfort, my saftey. I would watch them in amazement as he found my hands not my body, I would kiss his scars because they were proof of a different man, a safe man. He never understood just why his hands meant so much, but they were all the proof I needed, that this was the love I wanted.

Even now as I search for someone, or something I can think of both set of hands and a few more. My grandmother’s dying hands in my own. I remember the frail feeling, but I remember the history in every mark, every line, and every bump. I remember my mothers hands always working. Most of all I return to Seans hands and the scars and lines I was facinated with. Perhaps that’s why I am a sucker for a man with strong hands, with scars, with kindness.

holdinghands72

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1 Comment

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One response to “Hands

  1. I’m a hand person as well – if someone’s hands seem too spidery or twitchy, it’ll bug me. My man’s hands are one of the first things I noticed and loved about him – strong, big hands that make me feel safe.

    You’ll find another pair of hands like Sean’s – and you will never, now that you know yourself, need to deal with another pair like Steve’s.

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