Touch

A hand is simply a palm and five fingers. It makes contact, a touch, a common event. We touch without thought and without consideration for hands or flesh. A caress, cuddle, embrace, small massage, friendly pinch or light tap. I draw animals on Dana's back as she giggles. I rest my hands on my husband's arm as he works. I rubbed my pregnant belly. I stroke Daire's back as he rests in his Moby carrier. My hands move across the curve of a neck, stroke some hair, hold a wiggling foot. Nothing special or extraordinary. It happens everyday.

But if it didn't happen, I would suffer. My life would feel half empty.

Touch is ordinary magic. It is the moment we reach across self to someone else. We break our solitude and transcend ourselves. We merge. There are no words we can speak to each other that commune so powerfully. The moment we make contact we are no longer alone.

This was my stunned reaction as I nursed Daire. He reached out and grabbed my finger for the first time, then rested it on my chest and firmly locked me to him. His determined hands moved in jagged strokes then boldly held me to him.

At that moment, I became conscious of something he instinctively knows. Our hands are the gateway to intimacy and awareness. It is why it is one of a baby's first tasks to master. Why he studiously reaches for toys, his hands wavering and jerking with effort and grunting in frustration. Why he stretches for dad's face and Dana's hands as she plays with him. Why he brings his hands together and studies his fingers intently. His touch is tenderly and eagerly exploring us and simultaneously reminding himself that he is not alone.