Today is about Ken and all the men who love us good

When You Find Love…

How extraordinary that this would come up as a FaceBook memory today, the day after my big day; last night, while we were in bed, trying to fall asleep from all the travel and all the excitement and all the goodness, he placed his hand on my face and said: I love that you’re fierce and strong and you’re vulnerable and you’re so kind and that stand up for people in your life even if you don’t know them, I like that you love so hard and you still have room to love me.
Today isĀ about Ken and all the men who love us good.
One of my favorite posts about iKen:
I have known his hands for 27 years and his hands have never hurt me.

Not once.
Not once in all these years.
I have had hands hurt me. Yes. Punch me. Scratch me. Dig their nails into me. Slap me, push me, corner me. Rough me up. I have stood and watched as a hand went straight through a wall.
His hands have never done those things.
His hands are a bit crooked. Used and well-worn and gorgeous. Mighty and strong. His hands have plastered up holes and polished wood floors. His hands have dug into the earth, the dirt where he plants seedlings that grow into flowers that he picks for me and then hands them to me with the dirt still under his finger nails. His hands have smoothed the pain from my face and not a word was said but everything was spoken. His hands clean dishes and wipe down the counter tops. His hands have held me when I couldn’t breathe from crying so hard. His hands have brushed the hair out of my eyes when my hair was longer and unruly and he just wanted to see my face. His hands have held cameras, small cameras, big cameras, cameras that could fit in the palm of his hand where beauty was born from his hands. His hands have made rock walls and stone beds and churned uneaten food into compost.
His hands have written love notes and fuck you notes and sorry we can’t attend notes and checks to causes he believes in.
His hands have lifted boulders and have shuffled small pebbles and are sometimes chapped and cracked and roughed up from the bad weather.
His hands have cradled me back and forth back and forth to life when I felt so unbearably worried about something or another.
His hands.
I have loved those hands for 27 years, and they have loved me back.

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