It was the last time I saw her.
It was a Friday evening. Warm. Late fall.
Her hair was longer than I remembered. She smelled like freshly baked bread.
We sat on the living room couch. I held her from behind, arms wrapped around her. And she held my hands in hers.
She traced the scars and scrapes on my knuckles with which she wasn't familiar.
I broke the silence with a mumbled apology for the state of my hands; she had often commented on how soft they were. ("A lifetime of avoiding manual labor", I always joked.)
She looked up at me-- slightly confused-- mostly sad, at my admission of regret. And she said: "I didn't love your hands because they were soft. I loved how soft your hands were, because they were yours."
And I sat wordless, abashed for having never understood.
5:53 p.m. - 2015-02-02
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