Long elegant slender fingers, fleshy strong palms. His hands. Those hands shook mines on the day that we met. Those hands held mine as we danced. Those hands interlaced with mines when I woke up in the morning to see it was not a dream. Those hands held mine at the altar as we said our vows. Those hands held our first child. Those hands fired the bullet that rescued me from the man that threatened to take the last of my humanity. Those hands accepted the child that wasn’t his. Those hands held me when I cried and lifted me up. Those hands fixed the things that were broken. Those hands loved, cherished, understood, felt. The once long, elegant fingers are now knarled and bent. The formerly firm, strong hands are wrinkled and soft, the veins visible through the almost translucent skin. His old knowing fingers were interlaced with mines as his palms turned cold. Those hands, now old and worn, never stopped loving me until the day that they had to say goodbye.