Matt had the most beautiful eyes. I would often say their colour made the ocean jealous. They would change from a blue-green colour to a gorgeous blue with yellow rays shooting out from the iris depending on the colour of shirt he was wearing or his mood. They were my safe haven. I found comfort in his eyes. I could read his every mood. I could see the anger, the torment, the love, the adoration, the contentment, the joy, the sadness…all of it. They spoke so clearly to me. But so often when I think of Matt and what I miss most about his physical being, I often find myself imagining his hands.

So many people notice a person’s eyes first and of course I couldn’t move past Matt’s eyes when I first met him. Then there is always the smile and his best smile came on our wedding day. Then people move on to the body or hair or what have you, but I noticed his hands.

Matt’s hands were the instruments for one his greatest attributes that I admired whole heartedly, his ability to create art on so many levels. From his paintings, to his wood carvings, his sketches, poetry and even his cooking, his hands allowed his mind to come alive. They were worn and rough at times, but they made him who he was. There was so much conviction in his body and his hands demonstrated his desires constantly. They were full of expression and life. His touch was electric and purposeful.

His hands touched so many lives. From the hand shake that turn into a hug or the hands that would hold our children after their journey to enter the world. His hands would often find themselves wrapped around my body or cupping my face as he tilt my head down so he could kiss my forehead-his favourite place to kiss me when he wanted me to know how much he truly adored me.

His hands fought to keep himself alive and he used them to defend himself when needed. His hands ripped his sister away from their abusive mother after years of torment. One look at his hands and they could tell you his life story. Couple them together with his soulful eyes and you had a man who knew how to live.

We hardly pay attention to our hands, we fail to see what our hands do for us. We take them for granted. I often picture Matthew’s hands, especially when I am having a rough day. I see their shape, the scars, he had such big hands, strong hands. I miss their desire to touch life, to truly hold life. I miss their touch on my skin, on the small of my back to reassure me. I miss their confidence. I miss watching them pick up our children, or the feel of them running through my hair. I even miss hearing them plunk away on his computer keyboard. I miss what they represented to me.

His hands are now a memory. One that inflicts much sadness but so much joy. Our son Kaden has his Daddy’s hands. Every time I take his hand in mine I find comfort. I tell Kaden often that he should be proud of his hands because they are just like his dads. A smile always comes over his face when I tell him. I will be sure to show and tell Kaden and Scarlett all the good their Dad’s hands have done. I am thankful I always told Matt how much I loved his hands and he would always smile and look over his hands front and back and say, “yeah I do too, they have seen better days but they have a lot of stories to tell.”

I ask you now to stop and think about your loved ones, what little things do you admire or find comfort in? What things do you take for granted in your life? Never stop telling someone they matter. Never stop telling or showing someone what makes them special in your eyes.


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