Our hand are the first extension of ourselves. When we meet someone for the first time, our palms touch and our eyes meet.
When I was growing up I loved my dad's hands. He would work at a seminary teacher in the day, and then at night he would work as a hobby auto mechanic. However greasy and black his hands got at night, he would scrub them clean ...and in the morning he would have no sign of working on cars.
I love to look at other people's hands, old or young. The lines... they tell a story.
When I was dating I could tell if I would like the guy just by how his hands look. Even now...when I find a nice pair of hands I have a hard time ...ahem...not staring.
I envy piano hands. I love dramatic talking hands. I ache for loving hands. I use my helping hands. I miss the hands of friends that are long gone. I reach for my husbands hand.
I lay my hand next to my sisters...intertwined with my Grandma's aged fingers on her last day in her own home...and that night I softly hold my Emma's young hand...and watch her sleep