Holding Hands

My mother's hands are small and delicate. The Communist's weren't: his hands were large, his fingers were broad. He was short and stocky and had the hands of a coalminer: he was a Bevin Boy during the war and there were still blue streaks of coal dust under his skin. His hands were always strong: there was never a jar he couldn't open and if anything needed the application of brute force, he was your man.

My hands are only slightly smaller and look like his, and I've always been aware of this. I can span an octave easily on the piano: nine notes at a pinch. But my playing lacks a certain delicacy, and when you see my hands you know why. I have some of his strength too: I'm pretty good on the opening-jars front myself.

On Sunday night, knowing he was dying and that it might be the last time I saw our hands together, I took this picture on my phone's camera. My hand on the left, with its Florida suntan: the Communist's on the right, pale from being too long indoors.

And tomorrow's his funeral. We went to see him today, in his coffin, and I was glad I did, though I said my proper goodbye to him on Sunday, whilst he was still alive.

Here's a verse which a friend of ours discovered once in a newspaper In Memoriam column. The writer had clearly adapted it from someone else's verse, and not picked up on the fact that it was supposed to rhyme.

He knocked upon the doors of Heaven
The angel shouted "Come!"
The pearly gates flew open wide
And in walked Dad.

The Communist loved it. I can picture him now, laughing heartily at it. I can still hear his laughter in my head, and it's strange to think that I will never hear it again.