Him

I watched his hands as he worked, dust floating around him in the air. Big, strong hands. Hands I know well.


Hands that held mine continuously through three deliveries, even when I squeezed so hard he feared a broken bone.

Hands that gently supported three newborn heads, each in their turn, as he pulled back the blankets to peek at their beautiful, squishy faces.

Hands that have reached out to wipe many a tear from my freckled cheek.

Hands that hold his face when he is lost in his thoughts.

Hands that load and unload every single grocery bag.

Hands that wash the dishes because he knows I hate it.

I love those hands.

And I love the man attached to them even more.

As I watched him work at his parents, moving furniture unassisted and cleaning messes that were not his, I studied this man of mine. And I came to the conclusion, for what must be the millionth time, that he's one of the good ones.

They say that a good marriage is the ability to fall in love over and over with the same person.

I'd say it just happened again.