His Hands

Disclaimer: This was hard for me to write. It may be hard to read. Please take care of you if you choose to read on – reading on is most definitely a choice. If something squeezes your heart too tight – listen to that. Take a break and come back later. These words will not leave. 

He lay there in a box.

His arms crossed close to his hips, one hand over the other.

They told me he was dead.

He lay where dead people lay… in a box, with a cover.

There was not much choice in the matter.

I slowly walk up to where he lay, having flown across the country for this.

I came to see for myself, to pay my respects.

Lord knows… I have paid.

I study his face. He is an immense man.

He appears more peaceful dead than alive, funny, so am I.

A small smile had been set across his face.

How benevolent in death, how malevolent in life.

His hands look like clubs… they were.

I reach. I must.

I touch his cold, hard, huge hands.

Hands that hammered many warm, tender, small places.

Both of us dead. One of us breathing. 

I close my eyes long.

“Let the dead bury themselves,” says He whose hands are punctured with my pain.

He reaches. He must.

I study His face. He is immense.

He lowers himself for me. A small smile has been set across His face.

How sacrificial in death, how beautiful in life.

I reach. I must.

I touch His huge, tender and warm hands.

He was hammered too.

In Him… I will slowly trust.

For He – is True.

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