I will never forget her hands -
resting on his chest,
caressing his face,
smoothing his hair,
intertwined with his own.

They accompanied her shock that this was ending -
this being
her
and
him.

For 68 years, there had been no
her
without
him.

Her hands begged him to stay,
tapping rhythmically to her questions.
For those of us in the room, it was a liturgy of sorts, a call and response where she led and he was to respond.

Do you know how much I love you?
slight nod
Do you know how much I love you?
silence
Baby, baby, baby, baby…

They were consecrated to each other.
They were in covenant.
Only death breaks it.
We watched the wrenching, dumbstruck witnesses to the pain of this separation.

The liturgy turned to lament.
Her hands
clinging,
clenching,
raised in raging grief,
covering her swollen eyes,
crying out -

I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready.
I need him.
Who will hold my hand?
Who will tell me it will be okay?
Who will keep me in line?

She wasn’t ready.
We weren’t ready.
But he was.

And now her hands are empty, awaiting the fulfillment of the promises on which they staked it all.
They being
her
and
him.