Two hands

On Thursday night I hugged my father in law.

I cried, he cried, my mother in law cried. I told him I loved him, then I held his hand, whilst his wife held the other. My husband, his son, looked on, trying not to cry.

His hand was silky soft but bony -too skinny for the once round and jolly man I first met 10 years ago. He squeezed and stroked my hand with an affection that surprised me, for he was a quiet, non emotive sort. I'm so glad he did though, and that he told me he loved me too. I'm so glad I went to see him that night and didn't leave it until the next day as planned. I will treasure that last visit forever for he passed away the next day.

Baby Joe woke up for a feed at 3 am the night I visited my Father in law and as I sat up in bed with him, he held my hand.

As his tiny, soft little fingers grasped onto mine as he sleepily gulped his milk, I couldn't help but compare the two hands I'd held that day.

One hand, frail, old and soft, communicating with people by action where words failed it's owner, expressing love through a squeeze or a gesture to come over for a hug. A hand that was saying goodbye.

The other a hand that's just learning what it can do. That reaches and pulls everything in sight, including my hair and his toes. A hand that still has a thousand things to learn. That might play an instrument one day, might climb a mountain or swim a sea. A hand that's saying hello.

Holding both types of hand melted my heart.

I wish I could hold them both forever and never let go.