Wrinkles run up your warm hands,
Telling tales of love and long times past.
Beautiful hands, carved from ancient oak.
That I can’t help but watch
When they dance through the air,
To the soothing tones of your Boston lilt,
Or as they grip a paintbrush,
Laden with color,
Ready to explode over the crisp page.
I can see them splotched with ink,
Stained from the time you said
That I could paint you.
I can see your hands coming together,
A smile breaking across your face.
I can hear your laugh,
Bubbling from within,
Booming across the room,
Loud and deep,
Infectious and hearty.
Your stories always have a place in me,
Memories and love etching words in my heart;
They fuel my heart’s steady beat,
Sending a smile and joy and memories of you
Infused in my blood.