Hands   She always wrote about hands, a frantic scrabble through memory, a list long and puzzling until she revealed all in one line, ‘I can’t remember his hands’   I am fortunate, I remember your hands, wide, strong, muscular, nails bitten down until cancer came and you let the nails grow, had to have them cut, month after month, the only strong thing about your body.   I remember your hands, the music you played, music that floated from the piano music that flowed, burbled, jazzed into being, romantic music that brings me to tears now knowing you are not making the notes.   I remember your hands, the softness, the deftness, the love-light caresses more warming than sunlight.   I am fortunate I remember your hands.     © 2006 Dawn Bruce