Big Hands

I wake early to the dog asking to go out.  And when I return to the warmth of our bed, I rest my head against his broad chest.  He is fast asleep, he does not so much as stir.  I love this wide king bed, where we can sleep seperately and yet share a bad.  He has his blankets, I have mine, no hogging or tugging.  I feel safe here against him the dog between our legs.  I know the safety comes only from inside me.  I have no fear with this man, I never worry where he is, whom he is with, and if he might be finding interest in someone else, it just isn’t there.  I have this deep feeling of being satisfying to him.  I know it only comes from within me, but he is not critical, he loves what he gets from me, he is pleased, and content, and laughs when I curse, or belch or act goofy.  I do not have to be a lady, and yet I am treated with the deepest respect.

In the truck we were discussing what was left to be done at his mom’s house, and at our house.  And I said we still need to get something in writing that says I can remain in the house as long as I need to if something happens to you. His son asks, aren’t I in charge of the house if something happens?  Yes.  I say, I just don’t want to be scrambling for a new place to live and be out on the street in three days.

Like I would do that, he says.

A man like his father.

And as we watch the boys being silly on stage, his son comes up to us and says, I want to say hi to my family.  There is only Tom and I there.  I hear his words on the inside of me, like a gift, unexpected, and cherished.

I put my giant hands, long fingers, calloused and rough, chipped nails, and dry skin from too much washing, my hard work woman hands into his.

My hands shrink, and are soft and so feminine, and yet they are still my hands.

He is so big, so strong, so gentle.

And this is why I feel so safe and I tell him.

That is because I will always protect you.

I know I don’t need it, I have managed on my own for a long long time.  But still, I like how it feels.

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