hands.

Those hands. Those young, calloused hands, tired from a hard days work. Those hands that held hers, that got clammy on the first date & shook when he lifted her white veil. Those hands that held their children—the small, delicate children that grew inside her belly. Those hands. Those old, thin hands that hold her thinned, atrophied body now. Those old, thin hands that wrap around her hips while she unsteadily walks, that take her aged hand with comfort & stretch her fingers to ease the contractures. Those hands—the ones that have held her through this journey.

Those feet. Those young, springful feet, sore from running. Those feet that brushed against hers between freshly laundered sheets in the intimate quiet of their bedroom. Those feet that paced the creaky wood floor holding crying babies while she soundly slept on the other side of the wall. Those feet that traveled to work each day, home at night; those feet that carry him to the grocery store to buy their food, those feet that trail behind the vacuum as he cleans their house, those feet that lovingly carry that dinner tray of food to her in bed each night. Those feet—the ones that have carried them through this journey.

Those arms. Those tanned, muscular arms, sore from long days in the trenches. Those arms that were washed clean each night, that sat down at the dinner table to a meal she had prepared for the family. Those arms that pumped by his side on his morning runs, that nuzzled children against his chest, that changed her car tires; those arms that now lifted her into bed each night & guided her to the toilet. Those arms that are always ready to wrap around her in a comforting embrace should she feel alone, even for a second. Those arms—the ones that have wrapped her in comfort during sickness & health.

That smile. That white toothed smile, the one that made her melt from the beginning. The one that lead to the squinted eyes & barreling laugh—the one she looked forward to each night. That smile, the one she saw as he asked if she’d spend forever with him, the one she gazed at from the front of the church on their wedding day, the one she matched as they held their children. That smile that greeted her after a long day at home, that she looked at from across the pillow in the dark of night, the one she still sees everyday lead purely by love. That smile—the one that reminds her, day after day, he is still totally in love.

And that love. The one that has survived job loss, parental loss, & miscarriage. The one that bloomed in the crux of youth, grew through wars & free love, and persevered through economic turmoil. The one that stands by her failing body, fisted hands, shaking head; the one that holds her tightly between the sheets, that fixes her breakfast, is fixated on her heart. That love—the one that outlasts this life.