You said we would always hold
hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold
hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark
wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and
traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a
warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter.
We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.
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