Goodwood

Goodwood

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Cherished

These hands that touch me… which have the strength to bend copper pipe at a forty five degree angle, yet gentle enough to hold our daughters tiny fingers and guide her faltering steps across the polished beechwood floor.

Un-tanned, broad spans of palms act as shovels to scoop up Lego bricks, discarded by our son. Large bright coloured bricks that earlier in the day you lay on the floor to build, with care into towers. Only to have them smashed by a single swipe of his hand and as you mockingly complain, ‘Oh no!’ Peels of laughter ring out as he squeals with glee, ‘Again, again.’

You dislike public displays of affection they’re not your style. Surrounded by ice cream sundaes and pink roses that same hand trembled as you dipped to one knee to propose. Just for a laugh those nimble fingers snapped the engagement ring box shut, with such a crack I jumped off my seat, before I had time to say yes.

At our engagement party we were fooling about, you picked up the sherry trifle, turned it upside down and span the glass bowl round my head. The room erupted; our guests couldn’t contain their laughter as dribs of jelly and drabs of custard slopped down my arms. Afterwards you teased out tinned pineapple chunks and cubed lumps of pear as you showered the mess from my hair.

When there’s a storm brewing and I resemble a small boat tied to a forgotten mooring, you stroke my arm. Your touch calms me, steadies my nerves. These dependable hands that hold me with adulation and after we’ve made love those same hands that hold our bull mastiff on a tethered lead for her morning walk round the village common.

If I’m nervous you place your hand, in the small of my back, guide me to safety. The same soft fingertips with trimmed nails that before you vacate our crumpled warm bed know how and where to plunder me with a lightness of touch which draws such sweet music. Unable to resist, my body twitches to your love tap, bringing forth moans of joy before I end with a big bang that ensnares me in ecstasy.

At the end of a tough day when my back aches your experienced fingers massage liniment to dislodge tight knots. This deep kneading action and pungent menthol odour, eases my tension. Your hands work their magic, as balm for my soul.

Once the children sleep, cradled in your arms I rest. The full length of our bodies touch, skin against skin, as your tenderness traces a never ending pattern across and down my bare back and after we talk through the days events, as I drift off to sleep you enfold your fingers through mine, wrapping each finger, one between the other you cup my hand in yours, and press our enclosed hand together, against your heart. These unwritten rules of your hands, these coded messages fill me with desire.

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