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I watched her as a stranger would, just the other day. She sat watching a movie across from me. As I marveled at her beauty I was pleased to feel that same excitement that drew me to her so many years ago. Her hand gracefully rose from the position it had been resting in and gently ran through her hair. As she lowered it back onto her leg I remembered the first time I saw those delicate hands.

She had come to my home after months of talking on line. I was to be her hostess for the weekend, along with other mailing list community members. I knew immediately that she would be someone I would never forget.

That evening as we all loudly prepared a meal, I noticed her hands. It was beyond any hope I had that the flirting we had engaged in that afternoon would lead to any more than a weekend of pleasure. I found myself praying for more than the fleeting touch I had enjoyed earlier that day.

She was a paramedic and a nurse. I felt below her league. Yet there she stood, smiling at my kitchen sink washing a plate as talk among the group carried on without reprieve. I heard nothing as I imagined those hands touching me, perhaps, someday…if I was very fortunate. I didn’t know until later that her thoughts were the same. Her smile was in honor of me. She wasn’t there to meet others. She had come for me.

Those hands became mine, they wiped tears and gently cradled my face as she told me she loved me for the first time. Later I would watch as those hands became a mothers hands. Expertly bandaging my child’s wounds and embracing each of my children as hers.

I watched her at work as she administered medications and helped to save lives countless times. Her movements were sure as they expertly performed each nursing task. They held frightened children and comforted teary parents. They hugged grieving families and respectfully prepared the bodies of those that didnt make it.

I watched her fingers entwined in mine as she placed a ring on my finger and vowed to stay mine forever. I was blessed with the task of returning those vows and swooned as I offered my own ring onto her beautiful finger.

Her hands know my own in the way only long time lovers know their mate. In the black of night they easily find those places they know will bring pleasure. As they make their way down the small of my back I still close my eyes and remember that first touch.

I imagine them aging. Becoming more delicate, skin loosening as age greets them gently. I will remain engrossed in what time does to her hands. Perhaps someday grandchildren will come into our lives and they too will be blessed to be touched by those beautiful hands and the heart that makes them move with such grace.

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