Hands....

Bentonville, North Carolina is a small town - and is famous for being the last real tactical offensive launched by the Confederate Army against Sherman as his armies rode across the south, leaving behind a path of flames and injured soldiers - 3,092 Confederate Soldiers died and just over 1,000 union troops died on the small battlefield - and that's where I am tonight, at a comfortable Hampton Inn, just miles from the battlefield, possibly sleeping over a site that may house the last resting place of some injured deserter, or an old hiding spot for a battle weary boy to young to shave, but old enough to handle the kick of an outdated Kentucky rifle...

It was a long drive - a very long drive to get here, six and a half hours, two kids in tow, each with their respective I-pod Shuffle - each singing a different tune, each as tone deaf as their mother - but still, they sang me to here, and that is fine. I love the sound of tone deaf singing from those that I love, unfortunately, one voice was missing tonight, and I was hoping for a flat version of "I feel it all", but no such luck...

The things we remember and don't remember are amazing to me - tonight, all I could think of were a pair of tiny, soft, beautiful hands. Simple hands - nothing fancy except the diamonds, no special sort of extraordinary nail painting, or not overly soft, just small simple olive hands that smell of lotion most of the time, and never hesitate to touch a shoulder, dry an eye, nurse a wound, pick up a child - or most importantly just hold my hand - and squeeze as if to say, "Let's just hold hands for a while, because my hands like to be held". That's basically what I thought about for the last three hours - wonderful strong hands.

Distance is a hard thing to cope with, fear is even more difficult. I think of those young boys off to war in Bentonville, knowing that they probably would not make it home, and what had they left behind - what were they missing - for them, they were a world away - and it is funny, although not faced with death or being maimed by some lead slug, I have that same fear and the same distance - I don't want that. I want to be closer - and that sick feeling of fear, and the dry taste of lonliness that will not allow you to stop wanting to have some cold water - it will not go away - those boys had each other - and of course the price they paid was much higher than the trivial feelings I am talking about, but when you don't have each other, and all you have is the distance and memories of and longings for hands, the emotion must be the same. Laying awake at night, empty thoughts during the day, weeks of convincing and reviving yourself that it's okay - it gets exhausting, but most of all, the fear that things are going to go away lingers all of the time, except for the time that you are together, except for the moments that you can hear a voice, except for those peaceful moments in sleep when you can dream of being close and smelling the scent of freshly washed skin and feel the heat of a tired companion.

That's three hours of driving for you - Happy Anniversary to my friend - I know I am not supposed to say that, but I want things to be right and good and full, and most of all I want her to know that she deserves the best anniversary anyone can provide....

Until next time,

George