These Hands

As much as I love listening to the piano, I realize I love watching her hands play the notes, The way they glide and dance. As I sit here watching the sun come up on a new day of fresh snow and beauty, I think about my hands. I think about the deeds they have done, good and bad, and what I have put them through. I think of when I was younger, before lyme's disease, how they did not shake, and the sound of enjoyment, when I give a deep massage. I look at the scars, the cuts, the burns from frostbite and scalding. The burns from acid that leave whole areas white, and the freckles that try to hide them. These hands that have taken life, have also brought new life into this world, have not only broken bones, but fixed and mended other's. Of all the things these hands have not done; to touch with love, the face of my wife, to hold a newborn child of my own, to hold the hand of a woman who knows me and accepts me for who I am, doesn't want to change me. They have yet to hold this woman close, as we drift off to sleep. These hands have been places and touched things, but they have never touched the heart of this woman, to learn her scars and beauty marks. You see, I want to know this woman, as she is, not change her, I know that in the future, I want these hands of mine to work with her hands, to hold them, to teach them, to show them. I want to have my eye's see what our hands can build together, a marriage, a family, a home, a life. I want these hands to hold the hands of my wife.