Her Hand in His

In the photo my parents are leaving their wedding reception. They are wearing their “going away” outfit. My dad is tall and thin, starting to bald, but tan, dressed in his tux with tails. Their wedding was at high noon in July. My mom looked like a modern J.Crew model with tan wedges, a high-waisted Kelly green A-lined skirt with a white blouse tucked in. You’d never know it was late July and that the A/C had broken. Her long, blonde hair was perfectly parted. They held hands as they exited my grandmother’s country club in Williamston, NC. A sweetness covered their smiles and joy filled their eyes. Excitement seemed to leap from the photo. 

They had met on a blind date. My dad’s brother, Randy, filled in my dad on what girls really like on a first date. Dinner and drinks at a fun place and dancing until past midnight. My mom was pleasantly surprised. A night like that was right up her alley. So, a second date it was. Dad made the plans again. This time without his brother’s help. Museum of Natural History. Yes, the Museum of Natural History. Mom went along with it and realized that a nerd with a cute face and dancing shoes might just be the perfect combination. She was right. They were married a year or so later and spent a lot of weekends combining Dad’s true hobbies with mom’s.

I only hear of these early days through stories of course. Although, Dad used to say that he “married up” and was the luckiest guy around. I mean, if you could see this picture. Mom, seriously, you were and are the most beautiful woman I know. My dad always knew that about my mom and made sure she knew it too.

They held hands often – my parents did. Every prayer at church, every movie in the theater, every car ride in the country. Every chance my dad could get, he’d put her hand in his. She thought him to be a bit cheesy but always obliged. She loved holding his hand. She thought she’d have many more late Julys to do just that.  This July was different. A day before their 36^th anniversary, she put her hand in his. But, his hand was cold and lifeless. The smiles, the joy, and the excitement were no more. Wails of tears and sadness filled the funeral home room. It just couldn’t be. It just can’t be. That wide palmed hand with unlikely perfect fingernails and smooth skin didn’t move when she touched it. It didn’t squeeze back. It didn’t follow with an “I love you” and a kiss. She was the only one moving. He’d left her way to soon. He’d held her hand for the last time only a day before.

It’s hard to see that photo now. My mom and I found it after the funeral. We were looking through photo albums and crying. That picture stuck me. The promise, the hope, the joy of all that is to come on your wedding day. But, the reality is, we are not promised any of that. We have no idea when the last time we will hold hands with the ones we love, kiss their face, or hug their body. It is the memories now that will carry us through. The early stories of my parents dating, the vacations they took, and the simple drives through the country where they held hands and smiled wishing they had more time to do just that. 

I've wanted to hold his hand many times in the past 6 weeks so I know my mom has even more. His hand reminded me that all would be OK. I have wanted to call him, talk to him, hug him and hold that hand. I miss his hand. I miss his hugs. I miss him. But, I have many memories of his hand in mine where I was reassured of his loved. My wedding day, his hand walked me down the aisle to my husband. A day of joy and excitement that was filled with so much promise of what was to come. I'm thankful he was holding my mom's hand many Julys ago and I'm thankful that his hand handed me over to my husband 8 years ago. I'm thankful every time my hand was safely in his. And, I pray that the memories of my mom's hand in his will carry her through and remind her of how much she was cherished and loved by that tall tan man in a tux with tails.