father's day

She never lay in bed with me, and looked at my hands.

I woke this morning, feeling the soreness of cuts incurred from a week of carpentry. As I examined them, noting the stiffness and calluses, I recalled how she never lingered with me in bed, studying the details of my fingers . She did mention at least three times through the years that I had appealing, handsome hands. But she never held them, committing their details to memory. Of course, such acts cannot be demanded, but are born only of wonder, and love.

She never let me touch her face. Not with my own face, or with my hands.
She said it would cause blemishes.

She used to be a little hurt that I never did a drawing of her, though that complaint eventually ceased. But she forgets the one that I did that first autumn, as she sat nude, assembling a puzzle on the dining room table. I sat behind her, adoring the contours of her 23 year old form, flawless as a sailboat hull. In love with the exquisite line that flowed from the nape of her neck to fall over her shoulder, tracing with the graphite it's subtleties down her torso to her hip.

I soon learned of course, even in that first year, that those curves would never really be mine.

And so, eventually, I gave up studying them.