Hands

Have you ever thought about how weird hands are? I have wrapped my fingers around my mother's finger, learned to write and play the ukulele with the same hands. I've used my hands to cut hair and bake and drive. I've done cartwheels and back hand springs with my hands. I've eaten, signed, climbed and danced with my hands. The same hand that reached out nervously in a dark theater for his as teenagers, also held his face countless times and touched his perfect curls. The same hand he'd put a ring on, held his hand in that hospital room and felt warmth drain from it.

The same hands held either side of his casket, tears falling that wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Touching that casket felt like the last thing I'd ever do with those hands, but then it wasn't. I used those hands to wipe the tears from my face. I shook those hands at God, wondering why he'd let this happen -- pleading with Him to take it back. I've used those hands to pray. I've used them to catch myself from collapsing from the sheer weight of it all. I've used them to paint, and write and wipe more tears. I've used them to hold others in their pain. All of these things, with the same two hands.

There are a lot more things I will do with these two hands, the same two that held onto my favorite person. I wish these hands could have held onto him a little longer, but I know with certainty I will again. Until then, I'll use them to write and paint and wipe tears and hold others. I'll use them because I can and because I should. I'll use them because as long as I can create, there is still hope. I'll always remember where these hands have been, but I have to focus on what they still can do.

I love you, Mitch.