Hands

Just a little something that's been simmering in the back of my brain for a while. Short, maybe a bit sad. Hope you like it.

Bleeep

***

Think hard. What is the first thing you can remember? Not glimpses or feelings, but a full, solid memory. Clear, concise and complete.

Mine was when I was three. My mother had a habit of taking us, my siblings and me, to a local park to try to curb the energy only young children seem to possess. This time it was only my mother and me, my sibs were in school by this point. Oddly, I've been coming here since before I was born, but I have no memory of playing there with my brother and sister. This day, however, would remain with me for the rest of my life.

Sitting in the sand pit, I was deep into the construction of a grand engineering project that only three year old boys can imagine. I didn't even notice the little girl chasing a butterfly until she trips and falls near me.

More startled than hurt, she starts crying, dragging me out of my dreams of creating the ninth wonder of the world. I hop up quickly and run to her. She is still lying on the ground, eyes red and puffy. I offer my hand and she takes it and stands unsteadily. That initial contact, that first touch, shot through me like lightning. From the look on her face, she felt it as well.

She smiled and sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her blouse. She seemed to be OK and the incident hadn't drawn the attention of our mothers, so we just went back to playing, only this time together. She didn't let go of my hand until one of us had to leave for home. That part is a bit fuzzy. I don't remember who had to leave, but I remember the emptiness I felt inside when I let go of her hand.

I'm sure our mothers thought it was cute.

Any time we were at the park together after that, we played together hand in hand. There just wasn't any other way.

School started for us a few years later. We were in the same grade and the same class. We sat together at lunch and during recess, we kept to ourselves, holding hands of course.

We were still young enough that, though odd, our behavior was overlooked. Everyone was sure it was just a childish infatuation and would pass with time. They were wrong.

By junior high school, we had been warned, threatened and on a few occasions, disciplined. We would not be allowed to behave in this manner at school. Even our classmates taunted us branding us 'lovebirds' or worse. It mattered not. As long as I had her hand in mine, the world had no power over us. We spoke volumes never uttering a single word. Just looking in her eyes told me everything I needed to know.

As high school started, our parents became increasingly determined to separate us. According to them, our relationship was unhealthy and we should make room in our lives for other friends. We did relent to some degree and found friends of both genders. It did not change how we felt about each other.

We dated all through high school, much to our parents dismay. Rarely was one seen without the other and always holding hands. It was as certain as the sunrise.

After graduation, I took a job with a local car dealer as a line mechanic. I've always had a knack for all things mechanical and was soon the go-to guy for problems that no one else seemed to be able to solve. The pay was decent and with the savings I had and a small inheritance from my mother's parents, I bought a three bedroom bungalow not far from my workplace.

She had taken a job with a family friend as a receptionist in a doctor's office. Always professional, polite and focused, she excelled in her position.

Most evenings, after work, were spent making my house a home. It was there, one special evening, we made love for the first time. She cupped my face with one hand and held one of mine with the other as we drove one another into ecstasy. Eyes lock, we joined our souls that night.

We desperately wanted to live together. Something that just wasn't done at that time. We had plans to marry, but her parents were adamant that they did not want us together and wanted no part in the matter. My parents weren't much better. Sitting hand in hand one evening, we made our decision. With or without them, we were going to be together. We wed in a simple ceremony a few weeks later. Neither her nor my parents attended.

She moved in that day and we set about building our life together. Late night talks about any and every subject.

Plans for children, career goals and long term plans were made. Life, for us, was idyllic. No problem too great, no disagreement too difficult that a simple touching of the hands couldn't fix it. The clarity and serenity of that moment made everything clear. We knew our path.

As time passed, the relationship with our families thawed to some degree, especially when they became aware of impending grandchildren. In all three before we called it quits. They finally accepted that we were committed to each other and our future together. Even though we'd never known anything except each other, and that was unusual, they admitted that our marriage was stronger than any other they knew, including their own. Wow! Talk about shocked. It was good to have our families behind us, even if it took longer than we'd hoped.

Ask our kids, they'll tell you. There was never a time their mother and I were within touching distance that we weren't holding hands. At times they found it embarrassing, other time endearing, but they grew to accept and I think even respect it. We showed them that together we were stronger than either of us was separately. We fought to give them the support we never had from our own parents.

Years, decades passed. The children grew, married and started their own families. Our parents passed one by one until none remained. Even the grandchildren married. We watched it all, hand in hand. Even the kids picked up on the habit. Keeping close like we did helped them stay focused on what was important, each other. Nothing else mattered as long as they had each other to rely on.

As much joy as our hands have given one another over the years, I cursed mine the day I found the lump in her breast. Even in old age, we enjoyed sex regularly. Today would change all that. After many doctors, consults, tests, poking and prodding it was found to be cancer. Advanced, fast growing and seemingly impervious to everything modern medicine could throw at it.

We carefully weighed our options, hands clasped. At best, they could buy her some time. Six months, maybe a year beyond the eighteen months they estimated. It would require radical surgery and brutal chemotherapy. She decided and I supported the decision to forego treatment. She said she didn't want to spend her last days disfigured, sick and miserable. With what time she had, she wanted to be as active as possible as long as possible.

The family rallied by our sides and we set about making her remaining time one of joy and remembrance. As long as she was able, we did all the things we talked about as kids. We saw Paris by moonlight, made love under the stars in a tropical paradise and she drove a race car at nearly 180 MPH. I chickened out at 160.

We tried to do it all, but alas time wasn't on our side. I find myself at her bedside, holding her hand. She insisted on dying at home. The only home we'd ever had. The home we loved one another in all these years.

The time was near. I'd sent the kids and grandkids away. It was her last wish. They didn't like it, but loved her, us, enough to grant it.

Pulling my hand to her chest, she looked in my eyes. I could see the love there, just as I had every time before. She spoke so softly I almost couldn't hear her. "This hand has been mine since that day at the park so many years ago." She whispered. "I must give it back to you now. I love you."

I felt the life drain from her, but I could not let her go. With all the power in my being, I held on. One way or another, I would not allow us to be separated. No force on earth or in Heaven would stop me.

After some moments of confusion, I find myself standing before a bright light. It is the most wondrous thing I've ever seen. I can feel the love and acceptance pouring from it. It is calling to me. "Come home." There is a hand in mine. I look beside me and see her standing there, beautiful, young and healthy. She is breathtaking.

"You came." She says, smiling.

"I did." I answer. "This hand is mine, now and forever."