Your hands are so innocent. They walk across tasks, checking for acceptance, applying for credit. Without disdain or frustration, they make mistakes and make corrections.
We were cooking, pasta I think, and it was something you had never cooked (which is pretty much anything beside Mac N'cheese and popcorn). I was watching, guiding, smiling as you chopped onions and tried not to cry. Is this sliced thin enough? What should I do next? Want me to grate the cheese? Your hands hold no sin, only gratitude for work.
Fingers finish their small jobs and wait for the next, articulate, anxious, eager to complete.
You joke that you know what "al dente" means, who doesn't?
I laugh in response to what bubbles over
I can't believe how long it took
I count on you
I couldn't do this without you,
without your hands.