I miss Husband #2’s hands…specifically I miss holding hands with him.
Admittedly I am a Touch person. I love to snuggle, hug, stroke, and touch those that I love. And I love being touched in return. For those of you who have read The Five Love Languages, you know what I’m talking about. I am a toucher in every sense of the word.
Husband #2’s hands are swarthy and strong. I loved the way they looked when we would hold hands at night. My hands are pale and soft. They are smaller than his. His hands are tan, rough, and wider than mine. In the dim evening light, my hands seemingly glowed against the darkness of his skin.
His hands have taken a beating over his lifetime. They have scars, defined veins, callouses, and shredded cuticles. His hands were punished by work, chopping wood, and his cavalier attitude towards lotion and winter gloves. Yet in his hands there was tenderness and caring when he held on to mine.
My hands are starting to show their age with the tops of them looking a little like crêpe paper. Sunscreen was not invented when I was a kid, so years of exposure are catching up to me. I garden and work on my house. I’m tough on my hands as well, but lotion and good genes have saved me from looking ravaged.
The contrast between Husband #2’s hands and my hands is striking and I love that. I enjoy those differences and I miss holding his hands when we walk around town.