I hold a woman’s hand. Her husband is dead, buried long ago in a cemetery somewhere in this state of rain and gloom. She tells me it was cancer of the lungs. He smoked heavily. Her eyes are hidden beneath flaps of skin as she discusses his shortcomings and the outright failures of his long life. He worked at a bank, owned a store in the sticks, they had no children. They are a beautiful couple whose long history lines the cabinet near the kitchen table where we sit. Their wedding photograph is in sepia tone. Two smooth skinned young people, far younger than I am now, embarking on something as foolhardy as lifelong commitment. I hold her hand because I am there with her. They tremble when she becomes emotional. My own coarse hands do what they can. They accomplish far more than any word could do.