I love to hold hands. There is a basic deep connection in the holding of hands. It is intimate. A direct path from one heart to another.
I want to hold the hand of a lover under the covers laying in bed, while walking at night in the park, while driving country roads in the car.
I want to hold the hand of a friend as she tells me her secret thoughts or maybe we just sit silently.
I want to hold my grandmother’s hand again, feel her soft worked-in skin, her strong bony fingers.
I want to go to the hospital and hold hands with strangers who need a hand to hold. Need it more than medicine and more than words.
I want to hold hands with my brother, both in our forties now, and trammel all taboos that hold one heart at a distance from another.
About this piece: I wrote this recently as a 10-minute exercise in a workshop held by Melinda Burns. Melinda is a local Guelph writer who has been leading writing workshops for three decades. She is an incredible talent and one of the gentlest people I know. If you’re interested in writing with her, there’s a Fiction Workshop starting up next Thursday, March 13th, 2014 and running every two weeks until May 22nd.