Old hands, what a story they can tell. Hands once young and smooth, now crinkled and wrinkled with age like the bark of an aged oak tree in the woods.
Hands first clasped together sixty-three years ago on the threshold of a journey together, hands now clasped together in love and support and whispering "I am here with you."
Hands that lovingly tended three babies, hands that brushed away the tears of a young girl, hands that smoothed away the heat of a fever. Hands that taught you how to bat a ball, ride a bike, and thread a worm on a hook.
Hands that reached out to you as a young adult when life seemed difficult but wasn't really. Hands that understood your journey and wanted to hold yours but let you walk your own path.
Hands that have come full circle as it is your turn to now lovingly smooth away the fears, brush away the tears, and whisper "I am here with you."
Hands, what a story they can tell.
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