Two Lucky

I was in a half-dream when I felt his hands grip mine. They were warm, purposeful, comforting. My eyes were closed, but his touch was unmistakable. They were his palms, his fingers, his skin; it was a touch I had forced myself to memorise minutes before he died. It was with a certain pressure that he held my hands when he wanted me to know how much he loved me. I knew it instantly. “There you are,” I said to him. For a few moments I lay there unmoving, unquestioning, grateful for this unbidded, tactile reunion.

I opened my eyes. I wanted more. It was then that I saw I was alone, and my hands were only my own, that I wished I had kept them shut. My sense of loss became acute once more. I berated myself again and again.