Her hands are not the first thing I notice about her, in fact I was so impressed with her style when we first met, I took note of little else. The second time I see her she is at my house and we barely speak. I'm taken again with what great style she has, but more than that I notice how pretty she is; how had I not noticed before?
The second time she came to my house, bottle of vodka in hand, I noticed a little more. I knew we were going to be great friends. Her eyes were kind, her voice full of passion, her hands were steady; her hands told her story.
We were ten minutes into the drive home before I noticed her hand on mine. The date was fine, but I was happy to have Ally drive me home. Our friendship had become so precious to me. She was quiet, but her hand was warm. The simple gesture was so familiar but suddenly felt so different. She started talking and I understood why. Her hand never left mine, simply returned the squeeze when I locked our fingers.
Laying in bed next to her, I suddenly needed to know every part of her. I grabbed her hand and was fascinated. I traced every line. Kissed every callus. Wondered if her hands looked like her mom's or maybe her dad's mother. Did she bite her nails when she was younger? Saw spots on her fingers where the guitar had left its permanent mark. I marveled at how well our hands fit together.
Now I think about the future. Will she get arthritis; how long will the piano and guitar be a part of her life? Will her skin wrinkle and spot; or will her hands remain remain relatively untouched by age? Will her hand hold mine at the alter? Will our children reach for her hands first?
Her hands tell her story. A work in progress. A story I'm so glad to be a part of. Thrilled to be holding her hand.
