A quiet lesson in life

My eyes open slowly, effortlessly, as though the pressures holding them shut were gently lifted.

A rich darkness shrouds the room, save the headlamp that delicately lights her face above me. The only sound, that of quiet breathing from roommates sleeping in the darkness.

The lamp glows, and fringes of that light suggest the brilliance of her eyes. They are kind and focused, intent upon her hands which I cannot see, and can only feel. She shifts her gaze to mine and smiles gently – her eyes slowly closing and opening again, as though to say, “hi.”

I feel the pressure of her fingers on my aching forearm, the pain of a week’s unfamiliar labor being kneaded out of every tired muscle. Her hands work expertly, methodically attending to every tight fiber. My pain, the pain under her fingertips, is the sensation of being deconstructed. Deconstructed and reassembled in proper order.

I lie still, giving in completely to the expertise of her touch. The human form, my human form, holds no mystery. It’s not just that I am watching, experiencing, the work of competence, of purpose and pride. It’s the familiarity demonstrated in her touch. A conversation without words. Her hands speak, reducing my arms, the pain of the fibers within, to something tangible. I listen, and my physical surrender replies humbly, “yes, thank you.”

. . .

Physical contact, it’s a funny thing to consider a necessity. We need nutrition, oxygen, water to fuel our bodies. Do we need touch in much the same way? There is an intimacy in touch. It’s a trust. It’s a gift. Touch can be intimate without being sexual. It’s in awkward hugs between brothers. It’s in a comforting arm around mournful shoulders. It’s in healing hands on an aching body.