Touch

There is something incredibly comforting about a dog sleeping next to you or when a child is not quite asleep and flops on your shoulder, arm ‘round your neck. It sinks in your soul deeper than making someone laugh. That part of him that touches you brings healing to the both of you.

Or snuggled up to your close friend watching a movie with popcorn and knowing that it’s okay, that your friend is there to stay.

Or the fiftieth time you hold hands and you aren’t afraid to let go, because you can snatch the hand back anytime you like. The assurance rests in your heart. You don’t even need to think about it. It’s just there.

Or a summer afternoon in a hammock at the park with a friend and a dog a little too close taking fun selfies, talking about life’s problems.

I think it’s the skin, the skin of others, that heals us when we touch it.

Or maybe the knowledge that a living being has accepted you, trusts you enough to be up close, to touch for longer than a hug, longer than a moment, to just mutually linger in that security.