Remember the good they can do.
The hands they held.
Many hands, through the years.
People you loved,
others you “merely” cared about,
or cared for.
A man who loved you held your hand a few times,
never for very long.
His hands were warm,
You held all kinds of hands.
Your little sister’s hand.
Soft as a sausage, you used to say.
If you wanted, you could recall his hands, of the one who hurt you so,
who almost drove you mad.
The hands of Rain, soft, white as milk,
double-jointed, so very skilled.
Sometimes you think you can almost remember what their touch felt like.
You held the hands of the dying, of the scared, the hurting.
Your friends, occasionally.
Sand, water, stone, fur, piano keys, fish skin, flowers, books, God, life and beauty…
(C) My dear friend