Fragments of the Mind

His Hands

I took his hand in mine and stared down at them.

I thought back to when his hands when they were little. When his nails were permanently stained yellow from peeling oranges reading huge novels in the orchard trees. When they were covered in dirt and bandages from running about and playing in the woods. When they were splattered with ink as you learned and loved to write and live in your own world. When your little fingers were sticky because you lived to help me bake apple pie and I never could say no to that adorable face and wide blue eyes.

I remember when your little hands fit so snug into mine at Mom and Dad's funeral. Little hands that ran along that deep colored wood, hands that placed a red rose on both of them. You were so brave, only crying when we got home. Those little hands grew fast after that day.

Hands that did the heavy lifting while I tried in vain to run a business, keep the house, and raise take care of you. Hands that soon reeked of alcohol and that wretched bar down the road. Hands that flew up in rage at me, you, God, and Life in general. Hands that punched through my bedroom wall. Finally, hands that waved goodbye when you left for a new life. Hands I never thought I'd see again.

It was raining that day, just like today. So rough these hands are now, coated in blood. I squeezed these same hands from all those long years ago, a whole lifetime later. How did we get here? Alone, in the rain, on the corner of some dirty alley. My hand now started to shake as I brought it up. With a soft pop and flash I knew those hands would never move again. I stayed and held those hands, tears streaming down my face mixed with the pouring rain, until those hands became very cold.

The last thing I told him was "I forgive you", and the last thing he signed was "I love you".