Handprints - a viggorli by shegollum
*First and foremost, is anyone else, not seeing the community on their flist? I have no filters, btw. I know that LJ is rather random but still... I'd really rather not miss posts to this comm in particular. - shegollum
Title: Handprints
Author: Shegollum
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Completely made up. No disrepect meant to characters, readers or small animals living in trees.
There’s something about his hands that speaks of hard work and labor and life never backed away from. They don’t look artistic at all - they’re square and calloused and rough and more often than not, they are bruised or scabbed - and still they are perhaps the most beautiful thing about him.
He speaks with them, gives with them and loves with them and they are marked with the proof of his passions. As difficult as it is to imagine him without a pen or paintbrush in his hands, it is harder still to imagine him missing the chance to cup his niece’s cheek in his palm or pull his son close to him in a long, tight embrace. He doesn’t miss the chance to feel and it is a gift to see that moment when, after a time apart, he touches me and it translates to a soft certainty in his eyes as though a circuit has been closed by that contact.
I’m watching him fight to stay awake now. He’s so tired and worn yet he always delays sleep for as long as he can. There is always more that he wants to do and so he bargains with himself - sleep can come later or he can make do with less of it.
But right now, he lies on his side on the couch and talks softly to me while I sit on the floor next to him, his fingers caught in mine as I take in his thoughts.
His hands are as tired as the rest of him. Not even his soft and fading voice causes them to stir as his thoughts come quietly and randomly. He lets simple sentences go as though passing them to me for safekeeping
Did he remember to tell me that Henry is planning to come visit the week after next? Did those stupid plants he rescued from the bargain bin at the hardware store ever take root? He loves me. Am I eating enough? He promises to cook for me tomorrow.
His hand is warm and gentle in mine and I watch him finally give up the battle against sleep. I feel the slightest squeeze of his strong hand and I look into his drowsy eyes and smile gently to see him fall into rest. He knows that I will be there to hold his hands when he wakes up this time and every other, but he'll never understand their imperfect beauty and see them as I do.
Title: Handprints
Author: Shegollum
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Completely made up. No disrepect meant to characters, readers or small animals living in trees.
There’s something about his hands that speaks of hard work and labor and life never backed away from. They don’t look artistic at all - they’re square and calloused and rough and more often than not, they are bruised or scabbed - and still they are perhaps the most beautiful thing about him.
He speaks with them, gives with them and loves with them and they are marked with the proof of his passions. As difficult as it is to imagine him without a pen or paintbrush in his hands, it is harder still to imagine him missing the chance to cup his niece’s cheek in his palm or pull his son close to him in a long, tight embrace. He doesn’t miss the chance to feel and it is a gift to see that moment when, after a time apart, he touches me and it translates to a soft certainty in his eyes as though a circuit has been closed by that contact.
I’m watching him fight to stay awake now. He’s so tired and worn yet he always delays sleep for as long as he can. There is always more that he wants to do and so he bargains with himself - sleep can come later or he can make do with less of it.
But right now, he lies on his side on the couch and talks softly to me while I sit on the floor next to him, his fingers caught in mine as I take in his thoughts.
His hands are as tired as the rest of him. Not even his soft and fading voice causes them to stir as his thoughts come quietly and randomly. He lets simple sentences go as though passing them to me for safekeeping
Did he remember to tell me that Henry is planning to come visit the week after next? Did those stupid plants he rescued from the bargain bin at the hardware store ever take root? He loves me. Am I eating enough? He promises to cook for me tomorrow.
His hand is warm and gentle in mine and I watch him finally give up the battle against sleep. I feel the slightest squeeze of his strong hand and I look into his drowsy eyes and smile gently to see him fall into rest. He knows that I will be there to hold his hands when he wakes up this time and every other, but he'll never understand their imperfect beauty and see them as I do.