i have faith in what hands do

he wasn’t drunk but he was slurring a little and he fell asleep fast, like a thunk and a snore, but he held my hand, as we usually do when he puts me to bed, arms woven through the tangle of sheets and dogs that we should have never let onto the bed, through unbrushed i-had-three-beers-and-i-cannot teeth, through unruly hair i kept swatting away from my face with my free hand. at least for the next 15 minutes or however long before one of us loses blood circulation, i have this hand in mine.

i have faith in what hands do. that 3 beers doesn’t make him forget. that we have muscle memory to do the things we always do.

my friend b. meet dolly parton once and all he could comment on where were her hands. "it’s one of the only parts of the body you really can’t get good plastic surgery on,” he said. “she even joked about it, her ancient paws, the rest of her pulled tight, porcelain white, but her hands, her hands…”

they’re insured, i’m sure. i wonder the cost to insure the only things i trust to be there for me, 3 beers or not, large knuckles and tiny wiry hairs, they’re not the prettiest things but their fingers fit through mine and put me to bed every night and it’s a wonder that anything can be so tender.