Those tiny hands, they look exactly like his.
I've always loved Jeff's hands, swift and able on the guitar, soft and gentle on the small of my back, strong and sure as they hold me while I weep. Hands that held my hair and stroked my face in the midst of my greatest pain and anguish. Hands that were constantly entangled with mine as I struggled for days to keep her safe. Hands that find me in the middle of the night, brushing away my tears when I creep back into bed softly sobbing after pumping more bottles that she can't even have yet.
If I were her, I'd hold his hand tight like that too.
