Husband's hands did his heart's bidding

Recently I opened a seldom-used drawer in my entrance hall closet and discovered a pair of fur-lined leather gloves. They were my husband's gloves, a gift he had received from one of his daughters for Christmas -- the last Christmas of his life.

I slipped my hand into one of the gloves and began to think about my husband's hands.

They were twice as large as mine. Even when my hand was outstretched, his hand could cover mine completely.

He always used those hands so expressively when he talked -- especially when he was deep in conversation. I often kidded him that he would be tongue-tied if I held his hands down.

He took such good care of his hands. He kept his fingernails trim and neat with an emery board. His hands were firm and warm -- just like his handshake. It was the kind of handshake I always thought proved the genuineness of his character.

His hands were always there to help with the children whenever I needed him. My daughters still fondly remember his hands reaching out to them during their nightly bedtime ritual. They would run past him as he grabbed one piece of their clothing. Sometimes he would deliberately miss, much to their squealing delight. Going to bed became easy and more like a game to them.

He was gentle and never did use those hands to strike his children.

They were comforting hands. Whenever my back ached, they were there to soothe me as he rubbed my shoulders, my neck and back. Those hands held mine when I was going through labor with our four babies and the loss of another. I felt them on my forehead after major surgery. I saw them clasped in prayer during crucial times in our lives.

When we were out together and he parked the car, he never forgot to offer his hand to assist me in getting out. He always held my hand when we were in church or in a theater. He took my hand whenever we walked together, even if it was for only a few blocks.

During the last months of his life, I was able to spend more quality time with him and to hold his hands, thanks to help from Hospice and our live-in caretaker. He was so used to holding my hand that even when he was in a coma, he involuntarily reached out.

In my sun parlor there is a photograph with soft colors that remind me of a painting from one of the Masters. It is a picturesque view of a road, with flowering trees on both sides forming a delicate canopy. The road leads to a villa in the French countryside where our family spent a vacation many years ago. Through the hazy mist at the end of the road -- quite small, but forever etched -- is a couple heading into the almost ethereal landscape.

Taken by Daughter No. 3, the photograph is of my husband and me, walking together, hand in hand.

I have always imagined this caption: Happy are the children who see their parents holding hands.

- LaVerne Hammond, who divides her time between Wisconsin and Florida, is an octogenarian at work on her memoirs. Write her in care of Seniority, St. Petersburg Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731.

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