Tens of Years

She was making dinner and she did not have a job for him. That was fine, he sat on a kitchen stool and talked to her gently. She was a good listener, always had been, and he talked about his day, but also about the news and about things from the past that the news reminded him. She offered an insight from time to time and he marveled at how to-the-point it was.

When he ran out of things to say, he just looked at her hands picking things up and putting them down. Her hands were a little more wrinkly these days, a little spotted, but they were the same hands he had always known. He could not remember a time before those hands. His wife’s hands. So full of grace. With things.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk