Hands

Summer. We are on the road. We pass through Minnesota, North Dakota, and into Montana. V drives all the way. She has been this way before. I have not; she is my guide.

We eat at cafes. We drink in small bars cheaply appointed, but the kind of places we like. At night, when I am holding her and watching her sleep, I feel as though I never had a worry in the world.

Sometimes, while she drives, I pretend she was born in 1952 and it is 1977. Both our lives are still ahead of us. Mine will be totally remade because I am with her.

One day, we would own a piano. I would not just listen to her play. I would watch her hands touch the keys. At night, when we were in bed, I would caress those hands, those fingers, with my lips.

She would know I love everything about her.

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Published in: on March 4, 2008 at 10:00 am  Comments (4)  

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4 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. I have a feeling you’re not going to love my horrible car singing!

  2. V,

    I have heard your voice several times. You are not ready for the opera, but I like it. You are at least a thousand times better than Elevator Dave whom I have to listen to all the time.

    Of course, I cannot sing at all, so I’ll spare you.

  3. (Gasp) I’m telling Elevator Dave!!!

  4. Oops, there goes my happy home!


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