The Hand

  • A fluttering of memory.
  • Slowly creeping around the corner, about to steal in the light of day or having stolen and stepping lightly back into the dark.
  • I remember his hand, which he held three times, warm and soft.  Instantly caring.  I recall even now how I believed as he gripped my palm, did it of his own accord, that this would be precisely how I would like someone who loved me to feel.  Not a drop of guile.  Pain knowing pain.  We could have made each other cry, as I am certain hundreds of others felt that day as they presented their souls to him and he shared yet another breath of his own.  It was special not only because it *was* special, but also because it wasn’t.  Because it was endless and particular, being seen precisely as you exist and being loved for that person, and not for the potential or lacking there.  I wasn’t wanting to be writing, but I wanted to remember that.
  • I will forget the bomb cyclone.  I will forget the conquered fears.  I will forget the strolls, expected and unexpected, shared and on my own, the flurry of people, the moments of quiet.  But I hope I don’t forget the way that hand felt.

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