Holding Hands

It’s my caution, not the cold. There’s no other hand that I would rather hold. – Brooke Fraser, Love is Waiting

Holding hands.

I see this as an act of intimacy. I don’t lace my fingers together with some other person’s hand, all because I perceive it private. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s the truth.

I don’t do holding hands.

My hands are my most precious treasures, next to what my future husband calls “the perfect gift”. My pair of bony tentacles are my most healthy body part. My mind isn’t even considered sane; its health doesn’t come close to my grapplers. These babies are where most of my work is produced. My fingers stretch, hammer, press, massage, twist, and flow just to make my body extension sing properly. All the magic I’ve been working on my whole life is made audible by them. My work is priceless if not for them.

So you see, my hands have such a high price, and I do not let just anyone hold it.

Yes, I do shake hands for formalities’ sake. But I will always be the first to withdraw. so as to leave the strong, firm, ready-for-business impression so to speak. I never let such events unveil the tenderness of my digits due to their high maintenance life. I do hold hands with friends, and it is kept as a brief comfort and affirmation for both parties. I hold hands to assure grace and mercy, and I press ever so slightly to prove that I mean it.

But I will never lace my fingers with yours.

I will never let you measure the precise details–its lack of meat, its exact irregularities, its length and width, its coarse lines and the full extent of its gentle touch–for it is my best kept secret. My hands are the mirrors to my whole life’s toil. Only my mother is permitted to hold my and in such a lace because only her hands’ comfort is familiar and safe.

If I let you hold my hands—let your fingers interlock with mine, savor the moment with no ounce of haste, and let time stop for both of us—you must be most special to me.

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