Holding Hands

Whose hands are these? I wonder. Surely, they can't be mine! They look like fat juicy sausages, fingerling potatoes, roots of the agapanthus plant, old as Moses. They remind me of the Buddha Hand I saw in the produce section at Whole Foods...

(Is that fruit giving me the finger?)

....Or that gloved hand perched on a pipe at the LA Arboretum. Stiff and strange.

I've been thinking of hands lately: my own, because I've been neglecting them; my children's, long and lean, without nary a wrinkle; my husband's hands, hardworking, warm and firm, full of pain at times, good to hold. 

Today is our 25th wedding anniversary. Holy moly, that's a lot of years! Happy Anniversary dear Husband! Happy Anniversary to us! Your hands have held firm, even when mine have not. Look, even in the midst of everything, we're holding hands.

 June 7, 1987

This post wasn't meant to be about our anniversary, at least, it didn't start out that way; but there it is, the nature of blogging, one thing leading to another— hands to a long marriage. 

***

While I'm on the subject, I made a little video over the weekend (a nightmare experience, since iMovie changed a perfectly good operating system into a two-headed drunken monster...with google ads I can't stop!), with my rats, Blu and Lily, and Dylan's little cousins. A big thanks to them for being such giggly, good sports. Here's the video... called, Washing Hands.