These are the hands of the man I love. The man I loved from the very first moment I met him and for every day after for 35 and half years. The man I’ll never stop loving for the rest of my days here on this earth. The man who chose me to travel through life with him. A life that was happy with its fair share of sadness. A life that was often times hard. A life that we built together and one we expected to share till we both turned old and gray. These are the hands of an incredibly beautiful man who was taken away from us much too early in what feels like a terrible and unfair crime committed against us.
These are the hands that held the door open for me on our first date like all men should. They belonged to a young man of 22 who was quiet and shy. A young man that carried emotional scars from long ago that he buried so deep in an attempt to hide away his pain. A young man who found a kindred spirit in the young woman he met in his father’s restaurant. A young man who that young woman had wished for and years later would realize she had manifested into her life.
These are the hands who moved hand me down furniture into the tiny duplex on the water that was the first place we lived together. A man of 24 who was excited to be able to wake up every morning next to the young woman he loved. A man who sat outside with me and watched the boats sail down the Intercoastal Waterway. A man who rode bicycles at night with me through the quiet neighborhood we lived in. A man who never complained as he ate the food I burned in the oven because I was just learning to cook.
These are the hands that I placed a gold wedding band on when we got married on a Friday afternoon in February so long ago. They belonged to a man of 28 who stood waiting for me at the old church’s altar as my father walked me down the aisle in a light pink wedding dress. A man who I pledged my eternal love and devotion to for the life we were starting together. A man who I couldn’t believe I was so lucky to have found. A man who looked at me with faithful eyes that every woman deserves. A man who I believed could have had any other woman he wanted but who chose me instead.
These are the hands that held mine in the hallway at the emergency room when our first baby was lost to miscarriage. They belonged to a hopeful father of 29 who cried hard tears for the baby we’d never meet. Those hands held me tight through the physical pain of the surgery I had to have and the emotional pain of the grief that followed.
These are the hands that cradled our firstborn, a daughter who had hair exactly like her father. They belonged to a man of 30 who was relieved that his wife and his baby were both okay after labor complications resulted in an emergency c-section. A man who came back to the hospital in the middle of the night to see his newborn daughter again after celebrating in a bar with his sisters. A man who everyone in the nursery knew which baby was his because of the curly red hair he shared with that baby girl.
These are the hands that held our second born, a son who looked like his father. They belonged to a man of 32 who held his brand new son for just a few seconds before he was taken away and placed in a neonatal incubator to spend the first day of his life because of breathing problems. A man who took his wife in a wheelchair into that ICU later that night so she could finally hold their son for the first time. A man who felt like his family was now perfect and complete since he had both a daughter and a son.
These are the hands that bought the first house for his family. A man of 34 who was overjoyed to finally be able to put down roots in a home of his own instead of renting houses that other people owned. A man who tore out carpet and flooring to replace it before he brought his family there to live. A man who helped his wife paint glow in the dark stars on the ceilings of their children’s bedrooms to surprise them. A man who built a swing set in the backyard for his children. A man who let those children hammer the nails in the deck and garage he built at that house. A man who became good friends with the neighbors and spent many nights sitting on their porch in good conversation.
These are the hands that taught his children to ride a surfboard like his older brother had taught him so long ago. A man who watched over his children as they rode bicycles in the court. A man who lit sparklers for his children on the 4th of July. A man who took his children around the neighborhood to trick-or-treat on Halloween and taught them not to take unwrapped candy. A man who watched his children’s eyes widen in wonder and disbelief on Christmas mornings when they saw Santa’s boot mark on the fireplace hearth that he made himself late the night before with his own work boot. A man who taught his children to ride dirt bikes and skateboards, like he did himself in his youth. A man who attended all his children’s school and scouting events so they would always remember their father supporting them in whatever they did. A man who encouraged them in growing into two amazing artists.
These are the hands that bought the bigger house for his family who’d outgrown the little house they lived in before. A man of 42 who made a $100,000 down payment on the bigger house from the sale of the little house. A man who had worked long and hard to get to that point. A man who was proud of that hard work and loved coming home to a house with more space. A man who felt like he had finally “made it” by buying that big house. A man that built a skateboard ramp and a tree fort in the backyard of the big house with his son. A man that bought a trampoline for that backyard because his children had begged him for one.
These are the hands that held mine in a court room where we sat numb as a bankruptcy judge went over our assets as we tried in vain to save that bigger house from foreclosure. A man of 47 who felt like he had failed his family (he didn’t, not ever) because the economy and real estate market had crashed, causing him to lose about 80 percent of his income. A man who could never forgive himself for circumstances that were never in his control. A man that continued to blame himself for the loss of that house though it was never his fault. A man that carried a heavy burden that wasn’t his to carry. A man who didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to that big house. A man that never healed from the pain of losing that house.
These are the hands who put the alcohol down on the table one day and never, ever picked it up again after his wife and children asked him to quit drinking. A man of 49 who chose his family over the more than 30 year habit he used to numb his lifelong emotional pain. A man who quit drinking cold-turkey that day and had such strong willpower that he never had to go for treatment. A man who had to now face his emotional pain when the alcohol was no longer numbing it. A man whose raw emotions finally rose to the surface and demanded to be dealt with. A man who leaned on his wife for the strength to get through that emotional pain that had been buried so deep within himself for so very long. A man who eventually came to terms with his alcoholism and couldn’t understand why other people chose to drink their lives away. A man who could finally tell others the reason he no longer drank.
These are the hands of a master carpenter who perfected his craft over 40 years. Hands that were hard, rough and calloused. Hands that always had splinters buried deep in them. Hands that had fingernails bitten off short. Hands that had scars on them and hurt from arthritis. Hands that had blackened fingernails from hitting them with the left-handed Stiletto hammer his children had given him one year as a gift. Hands that had band-aids on the cuts he had on them all the time from the wood he carried with them. Hands that could pick up the heaviest nail gun and mitre box like they were feathers. Hands that meticulously rolled up his extension cords and never tangled them. Hands that used scrap pieces of wood to write measurements on. These are the hands of a man who built many beautiful things for many happy customers over the years who waited patiently for him to be available for their projects. A man who had many repeat customers because he was so good at what he did. A man who often had pictures of his work stolen by other carpenters and used as their own to advertise their business. These are the hands I watched draw plans for the projects he built over the years. These are the hands that wrote numbers down on paper in his messy handwriting as he figured out countless estimates over the years for the people who hired him. These are the hands of a man who valued a handshake as his word.
These are the hands that held his new grandson. A man of 54 who cradled the baby born on his daughter’s own birthday. A man whose grandson ended up with the same dark auburn curls that he himself had. A man who held his grandson’s tiny hand gently in his own giant hand. A man whose lap was his grandson’s favorite place to sit. A man who put his grandson on a skateboard and showed him how to hold his feet on it. A man who built a slide for that grandson and let him help with his own little tools. A man who colored and drew silly pictures with that grandson. A man who sat on the floor and built Lincoln Logs with that grandson. A man who played with Play-Doh and read books to his favorite little boy in this world. A man who became his grandson’s favorite person in this world. A man who forged a bond so tight with that grandson that nothing, including death, could ever break it.
These are the hands that I held tightly as the man that I love laid in a hospital bed in the ICU fighting for his life. A man of 58 who was hooked up to more machines than I had ever in my life seen a person hooked up to. A man whom I begged and pleaded with to fight against the damage his heart we didn’t know was so weakened had done to his body. A man who I tried so hard to wake up by talking to him and telling him how deeply I loved him. A man who I played videos of our grandson to so he could hear his voice. A man who I prayed so hard to God to please save.
These are the hands I held as you took your last breath. A man of 58 years, 1 month, and 9 days who should have had many more years here on this earth. A man who’s chest I held my hand on till his heart took it’s final beat. A man whose body my tears spilled all over. A man whose lips I kissed for the very last time after his soul left his body. A man whose wedding ring I took off his left ring finger. A man who’s dark auburn curls I cut to save in a plastic bag. A man whose strong arms and chest I ran my small hands over for the final time.
These are the hands I didn’t want to let go of after he left this world. A man who was the other half of me and made me feel complete. A man who had been faithful to me and I to him since the moment we first met. A man who loved me unconditionally through all our years together, even though I made it hard to do so too many times. A man who never let anyone else but me see his vulnerable side that was in so much emotional pain. A man who was my shelter and who I became a shelter for him in return. A man who was my best friend. A man who was my soul mate. A man taken away much too young and much too soon. A man who I don’t know how I’ll be able to make it through each day without. A man who I thank God for every day for bringing him into my life. A man that I’ll never stop loving even though he’s no longer here. These are the hands I wish I could hold just one more time…..and I wish that one more time would last forever.
The sepia colored pictures of my husband’s hands in this post were taken by my son for a project he was given to do at the art school he attended during high school. The project was to show a journey of some type. He chose to photograph his father’s hands and his own hands to show the journey of the older man’s hands through years of carpentry work in contrast to the young man’s hands that were not calloused and rough as his father’s hands were. They rubbed dirty rags on their hands to make the lines on them more prominent in the pictures. The dirt captured every wrinkle, callous and cut on my husband’s hands perfectly and showed the years of hard work he had done to take care of his family. My son’s pictures shows you the story of his father’s hands while what I wrote tells the story of those hands. These pictures are priceless to me and I am so thankful to have them.
