If eyes are the windows to the soul, then hands are the doors.
You can look through a window, whether pure and clean or dusty and abandoned or blinds barely open, and see what is on the other side and understand, watching your breath fog up the glass leaving prints and tracing designs, but never, never becoming a part of the other side, no matter how much you try.
Or want to.
Doors, on the other hand, can be opened.
Shadows playing in the pools of light flooding through the cracks, you decide you want this and gently turn the knob and there you are, surrounded by the colors and music of a person’s life and suddenly you are a part of it, loving and grieving and laughing right alongside that person and this was your choice, your choice of loving, to be someone in that room all because of a gentle touch where, in a brief, fleeting moment, you are theirs and they are yours Souls, gentle, making this decision to be here.