His Hand

His hand
It's been holding mine for years
It held mine on the day we exchanged vows
and it still has the power of comfort and affection, even after 25 years.

Like when he winds a ringlet of my hair around his finger
or tucks my hair behind my ear
Or when he runs the warmth of his hand up my back,
beneath my shirt and touches me skin to skin
I know he is a gentle man.

His hand
It holds my face before he kisses me on the lips,
It holds my hand in a parking lot or during an evening walk
our fingers laced and locked together
His hand heals me.

Like when he rubs out the knots in my shoulders
Or when he puts out his hand as if to say "gimme five"
but he just wants me to put my hand in his hand so he can hold it.
I know this because he's done it for years.

His hand
It lays on my thigh in the car while he drives,
It lays over mine on the couch while we watch TV
and he turns my wedding band in circles around my finger.
His hand warms me.

Like when he picks up my hand randomly and kisses each of my finger tips one by one.
Or when he unapologetically swipes his hand across my rear
even if we're in public or someone else is around.
I know from his hand he still wants me.

His hand
It is so much bigger than mine, with the calluses of a hardworking man
and the touch of a loving husband and father
It cradles and protects mine.
His hand supports me.

The warmth of his skin, the gentle strength in his touch
I love to hold his hand as much now as I ever did
when we walk into someplace strange
when we walk around the block.
Forever, I'll hold his hand.