Grasping

I loved how we grasped hands like old girlfriends every time I visited her.
I loved how we chatted and chatted, mostly about the same things as the week before, because of her dementia. It is not like I was pretending to be interested each time, but I actually was interested because of her way of telling the stories.
All the while, grasping my hands tight within hers.

When I visited this past Sunday, she was near death, I could tell. I sat near her bed and read some of my favorite psalms for a while before I noticed that her left hand was raised in the air. It was my turn to grasp that hand, to hold it to my face, and kiss it goodbye.

This morning she died. I woke up at 3 am, my hands were asleep and not functioning. As I tried to restore blood flow to them, I remembered how my husband and I spent substantial time giving each other hand massages last night with an olive oil balm. While I was rubbing his hands, I realized how much I love hands, how much I study hands.

Are we not all, just existing, just waiting to be touched by a hand, a word, a sound?

So touch.

This is the world of the living. Grasping and letting go. If you are not doing it every day of your life, you have no business here.