Nine years ago this week, I met an Asian in Birkenstocks at RA Training. One of our first conversations took place in the hallway outside of my favorite dorm room: He: "I like your cool polyester clothes!" (Gestures thumbs up)
Me: "Uhh, why were you guys looking through my closet?"
Immortal words, huh?
The next year at RA training, he took my hand in his as we walked toward the mess hall along Lake Erie.
I love the feeling of someone holding my hand, particularly when someone grasps it, taking charge of the situation.
I have a weakness for strong men's hands. I once had to stop sitting next to a professor who had nice strong hands. I would completely miss the discussion.
We haven't held hands in recent weeks. It's hard to do, at least one of four hands pushing a stroller, or half of our hands grasping a warm bundle of adorable.
My eyes fill with tears while driving. I think of this past week, the unwelcome song of the pager, the violence on our street, the ache to hold one another close, Jars of Clay sings I'm coming home I'm waking you up In the middle of the night I will not give it up I'm gonna stay 'til we make it work We're not going down Even if it gets worse We'll work it out.... I need your light....