He Held My Hand

I remember when we were first dating the touch of my hand in his was almost electric. I never really understood why.  I didn’t care why. It was a simple thing but powerful. Once we were married, the touch of his hand was no longer a borrowed pleasure.  It was mine to keep.  I cherished it.  Then a uniform got in the way.  No holding hands in public while in uniform.  Our hands would seek each other only to remember it was forbidden. Years passed and our hands became more busy, taking care of jobs or growing children, always working.  Too exhausted to take time to simply touch. Then pain reminded me I needed the touch of his hand.  I needed that tiny little bit of support.  I needed to know, in an unmistakably tangible way, that he was there to help me when I felt weak.

And then, he held my hand.  Together we are strong enough to face the world, hand in hand.