His Hands

Thanksgiving Day was approaching its end. Friends, family, shared blessings and laughter had filled her house earlier this day. But now the night is quiet. She has spent the evening painting, doing last minute fall clean-up in the garden and taken a long thoughtful walk. Her kids have returned to their homes and her friends are busy with their lives. While she is enjoying the peace, there is a loneliness she can feel to her bones.

It’s cold outside. The cold has crept indoors and she hugs herself, bundling folds of sweater against her skin. She tries to preoccupy herself, fiddling about the kitchen. Against the window, a wind blows strong.
In the glass, above the sink, her reflection gazes back at her----eyes brown, and pupils deep and black—black as the night outside. The wind is as the wind that blows within her—restless, meandering, searching, howling –then whispering---bold and then frightening, seeming still at times but always ever moving.

For a moment, a second or an hour, she is not really certain, but she has been lost within herself.

A smile touches her lips-- a gentle curve of flesh. A tender giddiness stirs in her belly and the tickle wrinkles her eyes.

A thought. An image. A sound. A word. A name. Like the very first touch of the zephyr which precludes the hurricane, a presence has entered her mind.

The air is alive and energetic, crackling, fiery and bold. She sees her refection, now less translucent, more vibrant, more colorful and light shimmers and plays about the face which gazes back at her. Her face--- with a growing smile. And her hair shines and moves as though played by a tender touch.

“Marc.” Did she say the name? Was it in the air or was it just a thought?

She feels a hand---his hand--that presence. She cannot see him but she can feel him---his warmth---the heat---the tenderness---the passion. Her heart is beating faster and faster within her chest and she giggles, curling her lower lip and pinching it with her teeth. This is not possible. Marc has been away for months, deep in the jungles of Africa, without a word or promise of his return. Could this be? And yet his touch is not one easily forgotten. His hand---that definite feeling at her right hip—his thumb on her back and his fingers curved around her waist. That feeling of a man standing right behind her—taller, caring, commanding and protective. And that inescapable sensation of breathing, coming from the space by her ear.

His second hand touches her, now on her left hip----firm and sure. She glances down and watches his hands move over her baggy sweater. She laughs nervously and looks back up.

She feels the warmth and affection coming from his form behind her. She reaches up and behind her head and places her hands in his disheveled hair. Something awakens from inside her inner most being.
His touch is so natural---real---accepted. He stands behind her as tangible as her own flesh-- His mouth next to her ear and his hands pulling at her hips, drawing her close to himself--- The muscles in her face tremble involuntarily. Suddenly she feels self-conscious and vulnerable, but he quickly relaxes her insecurity by placing his arms over hers and wrapping them in front of her body, feeling his breath against her face as he holds her tight.
Her head lolls to the side as his mouth moves to her neck. He kisses along the line of her neck---following the curves, the vein, the muscle. His mouth is warm on her flesh---thus sending a warmth all through her body.

“Melody,” he speaks her name. His voice is deep and rich---articulate. There is warmth and affection in it----and desire. Her breath catches in her throat like a hiccup and a tear finds it’s way down her cheek voluntarily. “I’m home,” his voice promised. Suddenly her legs could no longer find the strength to hold her to her feet. The steadiness of his hands reinforced security to her emotional state. Thank God, was the thought that kept resounding from her heart. Yes, thank God.
She’d found comfort in the love of her family and friends and a peace that was her mainstay--- her constant---through her trust in her God. Nothing could have completed this day----this day of Thanksgiving, as much as the unexpected, yet undeniable refuge from the warmth of his hands.