I told her she is the strongest woman I know. Even though she has trouble lifting the 40-pound boxes of cat litter into the cart at Target. Even though I am the designated pickle jar opener.
She didn’t believe me.
When W and I were dating, I first fell in love with her hands. They are not slender, porcelain model hands. They are the hands of a real woman. A capable woman.
W wears silver rings on her fingers. I like to watch her sew or write or fold sheets. I like to watch her fingers busy in task while light sparks off her rings as if she is a welder. It is so sexy it takes my breath away every single time.
Hers are the hands of a doer, a survivor, a finisher. They are the hands of my lover.
She is strong in all of the places in which I am weak. When I see myself reflected in her eyes, I feel whole.