Flash Fiction 01 - This Hand

This Hand

Her father walked her down the aisle. When the pastor asked who gave her away, her father answered he did, and then he did. Jared took her hand and every day for the next 50 years she could  count on his familiar grasp.

She held his hand the day she gave birth to their first son. She held his hand in the driveway when they waved their son off to college. She held Jared’s hand as their son took his bride.

Jared’s hand was her lifeline, her anchor, and her constant companion.

His hand was folded tightly in hers when the doctor made his diagnosis. She felt his fingers curl tightly when his future of cognitive decline was described dismissively with cold, clinical precision.

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze later. They sat together on the couch as she explained the situation to their son. Jared's hand trembled as they heard their son cry.

His hand was dry when she held it now, and loose. He forgot how to hold her hand as if to let go would be the end of his life. But she remembered. She adjusted her clasp and guided him down the steep steps. She felt his grasp twitch when the noisy train entered the station.

She let go just before the doors closed.