Be Still My Hand

She caught the misguided traitor--once known as her left hand--in time to save face, but too late to protect her emotions. Two decades of near-perfect denial washed away, dropping her in a life-changing spiral of churning, rallied love.

An instant replay of the morning's interactions assured her that she bore total responsibility for the break from reality. He had not crossed one forbidden line, uttered a word of encouragement, donated an emotion, or contributed anything to the imaginary wall she had placed between their seats, and those carrying the children behind them in the van. She had looked over during a lull between how's Linda and have you heard from Rob and imagined sadness or regret in his prolonged blink. She turned her world inside out; he blocked the sun from his eyes.

What if she hadn't found the willpower to paralyze the shameful extremity? Were the children old enough to understand the implications of a spontaneous touch? Would he have felt I adore you branded where she touched him? She sat on the hand until it tingled and went numb, wondering how it could have detached from the rest of her, forgotten the divorce, taken on a life of its own, and assumed liberties that belonged to someone else.

When they arrived at the park, she shook blood flow back into the wayward hand, helped release children from seat belts, and grabbed the hands of the two youngest, thinking she might persuade one of them to stay with her when the others took off for swings and slides. He selected a picnic table near the play area, told the children they would watch from there, and sent them to play. The tiny hands in hers broke away and left her, vulnerable to the liberated hand.

She reset her perfect ponytail and emptied sand from her shoe – anything to keep the hand busy while he chose his place, back against the table, facing the action. When he looked settled, she sat on the tabletop, her feet on the bench beside him. Resting her elbows on her legs, she leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her, far from his legs, so she could keep an eye on them and the children at the same time.

In this safe position, she forgot his leg. Instead, she focused on his head. How could a man his age still have that much hair? If anything had changed, it looked like he had more hair than he had twenty years before. That wasn't possible. The hands (both of them this time) went back under her legs. Like a bruise that begs a validating poke, his hair beckoned her aching hands. One touch would satisfy, but how would she explain it? There was a fly on your head?

She walked away when her thoughts went from embarrassing— If I trip getting down from here, I'll have to grab him for support-- to insane--If I'm lucky he'll need CPR before we leave.

The kids enjoyed having her join them on the swings. She was pleased to have those chains keep her hands occupied.