Bertie’s Hands

Many people speak of what a beautiful man Marc was. Yes, 'Bertie' was a beautiful man, and he had beautiful hands. I loved Bertie’s hands. I believe he did to, as he took such good care of them. Grooming his hands was a ritual, I must admit, I enjoyed watching. We were both focused on his hands - sensitive, expressive, tender hands. His fingers were long and slender. It was hard not to notice how he lined all his pencils and erasers up, with great care, before he began composing, or designed and cut out his own opening night cards. Hard not to notice his fine and nimble finger-picking on the guitar or mandolin, his new musical passion. Or the way he removed the ground coffee from the grinder in his breakfast ritual, or cut, with great precision, his toast with peanut butter. I’d watch as he lit a candle most nights at dinner, and used his fork and knife with pizza...and most finger food. The way he buttoned a shirt, shaved or folded a washcloth, always with deliberate care. With care he would reach for my hand, at every show’s opening, or at another dinner at his mother’s; in the Jeep, beside him, on another road trip, or on a hiking trail, or a camp site. Always tender. That was the way he stroked our dog, Kina. Tenderly. The night before his stroke he brought me a piece of pine - working with wood, another new passion - and he ran his hand over it to show me how well he had sanded it down, once again, to its natural colour and grain. I saw the wood, but I was more interested in watching the way his hand moved over the plank with such sensitivity. I always noticed his hands. That was the last time I saw those lovely hands in full expression and intent. I’ll miss my Bertie’s hands.

I love you Bert...
Your 'Barc'