Mary's Hands

It was 1971 and the first thing she noticed about him was his hand. Her mother always told her that you could tell everything you needed to know about a person by looking at their hands. It was only until she realized that she wasn’t really in love to determine that her mother’s words were true.

Her mother and father met in a much simpler time. Divorce wasn’t a possibility then. Her mother placed each and every hand under scrutiny. Her mother knew just by his hands that he was the best possible candidate for a husband and eventually his hands would care for their children.

“Why hadn’t I had this realization earlier?”, Mary asked herself as she stared at his fingers from across the factory. He was doing something so simple yet she knew that there was complexity to be found in this simple action. By this time around she was much more experienced and had perfectly determined what she needed and yearned for. The odd thing, about this time, was that they were the same thing. True love. Mary needed and wanted true love. She had found it in a man tying his sneakers. Mary knew at this moment that he was the person she was designed for. Arthur’s hands were strong, gentle, and modest. She new his hands represented everything she needed. She was so certain that they were meant for one another that she just stood back and let things runs their course.

Although Arthur’s hands were several years older than Mary’s they were evenly experienced. These two people had led very similar lives. They were so similar in fact, that their paths had overlapped and in only a few weeks they would no longer run parallel but together. It was March and by summer they would be married. Things would be perfect for the two. People on the outside would look on with envy questioning God, “How can these people be so happy together while I can’t even find someone to open a door for me?” God’s reply, if ever heard, was simple, “Your time will come, just as theirs has”.

Life was fantastic for Art and Mary. They raised a boy and a girl together. They traveled the world together. They spend every day for the next 37 years in each other’s company, never once doubting that what they shared was real love. Every time Art laid his right hand upon Mary’s left, she looked down to admire how correct her mother was. The thing that Mary neglected to do was examine her own hands.

They resembled a rake. Five thin sticks bound together by a palm. At first glance one might consider Mary’s hands as frail. The scar on her left index finger, calluses, stretched skin, and bulging knuckles totally contradicted the misplaced adjective, frail.

At the age of 91 Art was still strong, gentle, and modest. Alzheimer’s had begun to take toll on Art’s memory. Names of grandchildren, driving directions, and dates were starting to blur. It did not, however, cause Author to forget about his feelings for Mary. He still loved her as much, if not more, than the first time he told her so.

The December following Author’s 97^th birthday the ground was cold. The black hood of the hearse became freckled with flakes of snow. Dozens of people in dark clothing surrounded Author’s final resting place to remember a beautiful life. Mary stood quietly with her back towards the crowd. Her small left hand rest upon the oak casket that smelled exactly like the furniture he had made for her. As the pastor spoke softly Mary couldn’t help but tune out the eulogy. She only read the words engraved on the marble tombstone. “Author Neely 1917-2014, Strong. Gentle. Modest.” As the casket lowered into the grave Mary’s left hand slowly clenched into a soft fist. Her hand reiterated what her mother once said. Mary had to be strong, stronger even than the man she loved. One tear slowly streamed down her cheek as she mouthed three small words, “Farwell my love.”