Touching
Touching was easy. That’s strange, I guess. I’ve seen how you shy away from contact, how the easy intimacy between strangers–handshakes, hugging, simple kissing on the cheek–fascinates you even as you flee it. Your mother can touch you, but even that is learned, often endured rather than desired. When others try, you hunch and flinch and back away. For me, though, it was simplicity itself. I reached, you reached, and our hands fit together strangely, perfectly. From there it was no distance at all to embraces and walking hand in hand, to your warm solid presence against my side. Continue Reading »