The words were difficult, and the hand was desperate. Warm, familiar, and not entirly unlike the touch of family, or, what family ought to be.
It wasn' a completely pleasant exchange, except for the hardened and cautiously desperate relief of being near again. Like a sigh of athsmatic lungs; a hug of a distant father, squeezing too tightly.
The communication went along the lines of a mutual irritation and frustration with the other, a few barking, hurt words spoken through the shaking grasp of hands as if they were strangers meeting for the first time. Then there was the tiredness, the understanding, the forlorn intensity of a steady gaze across a crowded room. The thumb moving over the back of the hand, remembering it like the streets of a town. The acknowledging lapse of tightened muscles releasing beneath it, in a careful simple quiet I have missed you.
The distance in the initial style of holding hands, palm to palm, fingers held around the back of the hand (instead of intertwined, between, over, under, playing with them in content absent-mindedness of the simple joy of the action), reminded me of a side-hug. It wasn't forced, nor completely uncomfortable, and those who noticed saw merely two distant mild frowns and two hands held too tightly for too long, beside a basket of fruit snacks.
If the touch were a phonecall, I would have hung up first. The palm stretched itself open, sweaty and stiff, and moved all its fingers, one at a time, making sure they still worked. Mine reached up to scratch at my arm.
The hands seemed to know each other, which was funny and strange, because each had changed, and could feel it. "Your pinky didn't used to bend this way," "This freckle wasn't there last time," "You've gotten colder, your blood pressure has gone down," "Your fingernails are so much shorter." But they recognize, and hold on, and re-map each other in frightening disappointment and honest recollection.
Hands have amazing skill at memory, observation, and expression. Words are frustratingly difficult to communicate with. The silliest part of all this is that I practice in words, and often politely turn down hugs. It just drives me insane. That's when I get to stuttering, and touching people's buttons and collars, and avoiding eye contact.
Emojis are currently at the top of my list of fears.
It wasn' a completely pleasant exchange, except for the hardened and cautiously desperate relief of being near again. Like a sigh of athsmatic lungs; a hug of a distant father, squeezing too tightly.
The communication went along the lines of a mutual irritation and frustration with the other, a few barking, hurt words spoken through the shaking grasp of hands as if they were strangers meeting for the first time. Then there was the tiredness, the understanding, the forlorn intensity of a steady gaze across a crowded room. The thumb moving over the back of the hand, remembering it like the streets of a town. The acknowledging lapse of tightened muscles releasing beneath it, in a careful simple quiet I have missed you.
The distance in the initial style of holding hands, palm to palm, fingers held around the back of the hand (instead of intertwined, between, over, under, playing with them in content absent-mindedness of the simple joy of the action), reminded me of a side-hug. It wasn't forced, nor completely uncomfortable, and those who noticed saw merely two distant mild frowns and two hands held too tightly for too long, beside a basket of fruit snacks.
If the touch were a phonecall, I would have hung up first. The palm stretched itself open, sweaty and stiff, and moved all its fingers, one at a time, making sure they still worked. Mine reached up to scratch at my arm.
The hands seemed to know each other, which was funny and strange, because each had changed, and could feel it. "Your pinky didn't used to bend this way," "This freckle wasn't there last time," "You've gotten colder, your blood pressure has gone down," "Your fingernails are so much shorter." But they recognize, and hold on, and re-map each other in frightening disappointment and honest recollection.
Hands have amazing skill at memory, observation, and expression. Words are frustratingly difficult to communicate with. The silliest part of all this is that I practice in words, and often politely turn down hugs. It just drives me insane. That's when I get to stuttering, and touching people's buttons and collars, and avoiding eye contact.
Emojis are currently at the top of my list of fears.
I very much love your writing Shady, but please stop undoing the bows I tie on my hoodie.
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