Touch...

Touch is a complicated thing. As children, its effects on us are so profound that enough can lead to huge developmental gains, and too little all manner of difficulties. As we get older, touch becomes no less vital, but much harder to navigate, coming as it so often does with unspoken expectation, on the part of those touching us, those we touch, or both, so we often learn to fear it, something that never ceases to be vital to the very heart and soul of what we are.

There were times in my life, my heart, where I was not touched by another hand for weeks, months, so long that I felt as though I was starving for it. When we met, you told me that you didn't like to be touched very much, but, as our relationship grew, you craved feeling mine, and to give yours. I commented then that I thought perhaps you had suffered the opposing struggle from the one I'd faced, that throughout your life, every touch had been loaded, heavy with the expectations of those doing so, as entry to your body. With us, that has never been the case, so you naturally desire the safety of contact.

When, in 11 days, you feels my arms around you, my hand on your cheek, know that all I give, I give freely, without cost nor obligation. When I touch you, it is only to remind myself that you are real, here, and with me. And so will lt be, back to the simple safe comfort of expressions of love that cannot be aptly captured with words. I expect nothing, and will be grateful for whatever you are willing to give me. You are safe here, in my heart, my words, my arms, and my hands. I give you my work. I love you, my sweet girl, and I'll be here, now and always.