When my husband and I lie in bed together, sometimes we hold hands. Usually both of us are doing something on the computer but can spare a hand now and again.
But it usually isn’t hand holding so much as hand clasping. My hand slides under his and my middle finger rests just right between two tendons, delicately feeling the beat of his blood as it courses around his body.
That pulsating beat is life affirming to me. At a time when things are pretty bad, it reassures and comforts me. The steady regular throb seems so dependable and reliable.
It’s an unconscious thing, this reaching for the pulse. I am looking for a constant in a time of flux and I get it; every time.