This hand that I’ve held for over 37 years.
Wrapped around mine, love pulsing through our fingers, sending our hearts surging with excitement.
How my insides lit on fire the first time I held your strong, soft hand. I didn’t want to ever let go.
I thought of this driving home last evening from our weekly date night. It was dark, we were both lost in our own thoughts, and then you reached across the console and took my hand in yours.
Still strong, but now callused and a bit rougher. Working hands that clearly show many years of pride in providing for our family.
The intense need of wanting to know I was “the one” when we first met to, now replaced with comfort, peace, acceptance and security. A different kind of love. One that has grown and evolved, through all the ups and downs…
To still wanting to hold hands. Still needing that connection.
That connection of tenderness that morphs as time continues to slip on by.
Time now closer to the end than the beginning makes each second the clock ticks even more precious.
Your hand in mine which is my rock.
The one that gently winds his fingers through mine and all that matters is this one, precious moment.
And these moments of love that flash through my mind each and every time your hand reaches for mine.
They are gifts of reminders and of never forgetting what matters most.
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