The hand holding mine gives me strength and support.
It gives a reference point of fine control and accuracy,
and I am in a maze of confusion without it.
I still know what I want to say in my heart and mind,
but it doesn’t come out very easily when the hand isn’t there holding mine.
Some say that I am using the other hand as a hinge
to point more accurately and precisely.
Others say it’s the hand holding mine that has the actual message,
and that I’m not doing anything but holding on for the ride.
The sticky, sweaty, slippery film between our hands speaks of effort and strength
and tiredness and earnest hard work when we type together.
I am ashamed and elated at the same time
as I watch the feed-back from the eyes that are watching me.
My hand is tight and my muscles so sore
at the end of the conversation with my finger tip.
But I know that if I get lazy and stop pointing I’ll be as silent as the grave
and never get to say I Love You to the hand that’s holding mine.
