My dad died on this day and I held his hand more in hospital than I had since we toddled across roads together. His hands were cold and I lent him my hand-warmers. They are fairisle, and that slightly scratchy Scottish wool that takes no prisoners. He was glad of them, though they weren't really his sort of style. Since then, if I want that feeling of holding his hand, I put them on. Rarely. I am scared of losing one or t'other. I've worn them this weekend and they bring flooding back the joy and the loss of a dad. His smile, his jokes, his being pleased to see me. Relentless optimism, challenge and charm and a fine sense of the ridiculous and the pompous.
Holding hands is such a kind thing. Taking someone's hand. Squeezing a hand to let someone know you are there. A child's hand in yours. Your hand in your love's. Hand in hand together. Without speaking, without words, saying so much.
Hand-me-downs are loved and loathed. When my gran died, I was handed down her peg bag. Well, I chose it from the things left over in her flat. The bag itself is a denim handbag from the seventies, stuffed with wooden pegs. I didn't use them at first. Gradually, as I excavated the top layer of flimsy and falling apart pegs, I reached a layer of treasure. Worn wooden pegs. Whenever I hold them, I feel like I am holding my gran's hand again. I think they became worn with her washing. My sheets blow in the wind, holding the line only with her hundred year old grit and strength.
The comforting touch of gloves and pegs, held by people I love and miss. Bringing joy and fondly reviving special days and everydays. Handle with care.
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