Oh, please say to me you’ll let me hold your hand

Yeah you, got that something

I think you’ll understand

When I say that something

I wanna hold your hand









Palm cupping palm or just fingertips held gently, the simple gesture of holding hands speaks volumes.  Comfort, familiarity, solidarity, friendship, love, safety; it’s all in a simple touch.

Nurses lightly touch hands when ministering to the ill, clergy does the same. We hold our children’s hands to guide them through the first mazes of life. We shake hands in greeting and in agreement, a variation on holding hands.  A personal thing without being intrusive.

I smile when I see my parents, now married almost sixty years, holding hands.  A small jolt of joy runs up my arm each time Yoda reaches out and takes my hand.  Bashert and I will often just lightly touch fingers to pass quiet communication; I’m still here. I care.

My friend’s husband is dying by infinitesimal moments.  Holding his hand is what remains. She sits vigil while man’s inhumanity drains the life out of both of them.  But as the hours and minutes go by, she holds his hand; comforting, familiar and loving to help ease both of them into their next worlds.

Perhaps its not such a simple thing after all.


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