If You Need Me

Hands

Someone walks in your house and every bit of your body aches for a hug. Your feet step forward, your eyes well up, and your hands naturally reach for theirs. But a wall stops you, a wall of social boundaries. Social convention.

If you are anything like me, you look to the hands. They tell stories I have been taught to read. I can give a pretty good guess of why you are in my ER (or maybe why you should be) just by looking at your hands. 

These hands are bigger than mine by a large margin. We discuss that frequently: both our hands are strong in their own right, its just that you have to find the right grip for each of them. What fits those hands will never do for mine. 

I see the tell tale marks, the erythema, the edema, the stitches. I remember all the wounds I've seen and the fear that strikes a heart when certain text messages cross your phone. 

You cook to make ghosts, or in some cases, to heal them. Its a quiet smile and a deep breath. I turn back to my stove and tell God a thank you for the soul safe within my walls. The tears still well, but to keep together for the homecoming hero, I just ask God, in the privacy of the kitchen, why I didn't make curry instead. There's no time for the larger questions at hand.