Two hands rest, side by sunshine, on an October afternoon bench. One lacks the tip of a middle finger, an accident from hard days of quotas and deadlines and a careless sheet metal cutter; its mate rests easily, lacking polish upon nails that are no longer broken by typewriter keys.

These hands grasp a common history, as they had once clasped the other shyly during sunny after-school walks down soda-fountain lanes. In a quiet church they exchanged trembling rings. They dreamt. They pointed accusing fingers, slamming angry doors, and later opening the apologetic knobs. They shared the same television programs the way they shared the same bed and the way they sometimes didn't.

When one hand gripped the sweaty railings of stirruped beds, the other gripped nervous cigarettes over sandy ashtrays in sterile waiting rooms. They painted Mercurochrome and opened Band-Aids and hugged hugs and played catch. Each clutched the quavering letter bearing dark news from an angry war. Together they placed flowers upon the quiet earth and touched one another in mutual solace. They threw rice and threw it again. They held and rocked grandchildren.

Eventually, they grew up. Days passed into that sleepy silence where words were no longer needed to convey thoughts. The larger hand now creeps along the bench to the smaller one. It traces a heart among knuckles and liver spots. The other responds by flowing around hard fingers frosted with white hair. They embrace in the fading sunlight.