WYG Prompt: I don't know what to do with my hands

Trying to stick with the writing prompts. I have to hand it to Megan Devine: she knows how to create writing prompts that really force us to dig in to what we're feeling. And some of what's coming up for me is REALLY uncomfortable (I'll explain what I mean at some point, but I need to think on it some more before I do).

Today's prompt: I don't know what to do with my hands...

I don’t know what to do with my hands.

It used to be that my hands spent the workdays at my computer, furiously typing as quickly as I could think… to write code, to do analysis, to send emails and instant messages to colleagues. I can hear the clicking of the keys in my mind. Now, my hands spend that time writing about you or wielding the TV remote - anything to occupy my mind during my waking hours so I do something besides cry.

It used to be that my hands spent the early evenings preparing dinner. I can hear the soothing “thwack” of our chef’s knife as I chop onions and carrots and cabbage and mushrooms for a stir-fry. I can smell the aroma of garlic sauteing in good olive oil for pasta sauce. Now, my hands spend that time unpacking takeout, or heating up prepared sauce for pasta, or at most making a pizza using store-bought pizza crust. 

It used to be that my hands spent the rest of the evenings touching you: holding your hand as we watched TV, stroking your cheek as we kissed, squeezing you tightly when we hugged. I can feel your beard against my chin; I can smell you as if you were right here, the combination of our laundry detergent, your deodorant and aftershave, and the mysterious smell that was just you. You always smelled so good, even though you never wore cologne. You smelled like warmth, and safety, and home. Now, my hands spend those evenings trying to read, or paint, or watching yet more Netflix. And grabbing tissues for the crying that’s never more than a few minutes away. And now, nothing smells like home.

What my hands want now, more than ever, is to be useful, but any activity that isn’t writing about you or distracting myself from the fact that you’re gone is nearly impossible. Because letting my hands do things that need to be done - clearing out your things, rearranging the furniture, cooking a new recipe that I never made for you - those all take me further away from you and the life we shared. And I’m far enough away from you already, thank you; I don’t want to do anything that will increase the distance, even though I know that distance continues to grow with every day that we’re apart.

I know that I have to find new things for my hands to do - new things to create, new meals to enjoy (in theory, as I have yet to actually enjoy anything), eventually, maybe find someone new to hold (although even the mere THOUGHT of ever touching another man makes me cry, because you’re the one; you’re the only one). But I can’t do any of those things. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Certainly not while I’m still drowning in your scent; not while I can still feel my hands whisking up a hollandaise for a football Saturday brunch; not while I can still feel the warmth of the date nut bread I’d always bake for opening game day; not when I can still feel your arms around me and your lips on mine.

No, I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or with my heart. Or with anything else.