TITLE: "Hands"
AUTHOR: Kirsten Kerkhof * kirsten_xf@yahoo.com
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
RATING: G
KEYWORDS: S R
SUMMARY: When partners are both over eighty years 
old ...
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I haven't got the money to 
do anything about it either ... Well, we could 
keep on hoping ...
FEEDBACK: Sure! All feedback is rewarded with a 
Mulder and a hug ;-)
NOTE: This story was inspired by an article I 
read. After re-reading it I discovered that the 
author went by the name of Fox. Gotta be fate ...

XxXxX

	When partners are both over eighty years old 
one can safely speak of an elderly couple. They 
were sitting opposite to us in the subway train, 
travelling forward as Scully and I had given up 
our seats to them. They didn't like travelling 
backwards, one way or another.
	They sat close to each other. He was still 
well dressed, vital even, but existed in a state 
of general slow-motion. Time had taken on a 
different pace around them. She had had more to 
deal with. Or perhaps less, and had found it hard 
to cope with. She'd travelled through her autumn 
and was now well in her winter. The winter in 
which much fades and never comes back.
	He held her hand in a gesture of immense 
tenderness and she allowed him to cherish the 
connection. As their bodies had aged, their hands 
had remained young. He talked to her continuously, 
his voice like a radio play. One could see what he 
was saying, feel what he was saying. It was 
impossible to ignore it. He had a voice which made 
reading, thinking, or even dozing impossible.
	What it was he had to say was not very 
shocking. He only talked about the trip they were 
making and about the memories certain places 
brought. They were travelling from one end of the 
city to the other, going everywhere and nowhere.
	"Well," he said as the train started to move 
again, "we are once more on our way."
	"Yes," she said, "we are on our way."
	"Look," he said after we stopped at the next 
station, "we used to go here. By bicycle."
	"Yes," she said, "by bicycle. To visit Aunt 
Sophie."
	"No," he corrected her, "it was Aunt Marie."
	"Was it really Aunt Marie?" she asked and he 
confirmed it, adding that Aunt Marie had had a 
little black and white dog.
	From the monologue that followed we learned 
that this part of town hadn't made happy memories. 
Here they'd experienced nothing but poverty and 
misery, nothing to look back upon with glee. She 
listened, smiling gratefully, and looked up at him 
with fond eyes, as though he was telling her the 
most wonderful fairy tales.
	That's how they were sitting there, so quiet 
and harmonious, these two old people. And he held 
on to her hand, so lovingly, so tenderly. It was 
obvious that this was not the first time she let 
him hold her hand. She had little sparkle left in 
herself, maybe she had lost her ability to sparkle 
altogether, but her hand sparkled. Their hands 
played out a serial story as old as time.
	I felt Scully's head on my shoulder, her 
hand creeping in mine as we watched the elderly 
couple in silence. They offered moments which 
appeared to be made for Rodin, moments which film 
directors would have loved to visualise.
	Every now and then the man would caress 
question marks, commas, full stops on the fragile 
hand of his wife who had remained his beloved 
after spring, summer and autumn had passed and she 
had moved into the winter of her life.
	They left us two stops later. The man gave 
us a friendly knowing smile as he guided his wife 
to the doors of the train. We caught their last 
words as he told her how Uncle Earl had once owned 
a cigar shop here. She smiled radiantly at him.
	Scully and I didn't speak then, nor did we 
speak during the remaining five minutes we still 
had to go. She didn't lift her head from my 
shoulder either and I closed my fingers a little 
tighter around hers.
	When the train finally arrived at our 
station Scully looked up at me. The warm soft look 
I received made me nod and smile.
	It had been so very beautiful to witness, 
much more beautiful than I'd ever be able to 
describe. It was so beautiful it would have made 
me feel very sorry if I'd been travelling alone.


The End

Kirsten Kerkhof (c) 
The Netherlands, 2-1-2000