All he feels are hands.

Hands that can form words for a throat long ago robbed of sound.

Hands that can use a brush to put life on canvas, or pull beauty from metal strings.

Hands that can tease and soothe and oh God, yes, *that.*

Hands that can make him forget that she had stayed behind, with her father, her mother, her *husband,* that can make him forget that she'd really had no choice but maybe he had. Hands that can keep him here and now instead of light years and a lifetime away.

All he feels are hands.

{end}