I begin at the end because it is only at the end that I realise what the start and the parts in between mean.
Now the press of my wife’s thumb trying to urge her warmth into the cold sweat of my palm reminds me of all she is to me. Her hands are paper, yielding paper that has been scrunched, folded over time and again, a furry softness that only repeated use and age can give. Yet their touch has always been solid and strong- she is soft strength, a beautiful juxtaposition .
My palm trembles as her thumb traces small circles, squashing the skin as it undulates and stretches cross the bone of my palm. A small gesture… a hidden gesture, nobody else can see it but I can feel it and with each swirling rotation of her thumb I am reassured. She knows and I know that in this moment we need no words, we recognise each other completely, we realise and understand through the muted touch of one anothers skin what the other is feeling. This moment, this foreboding collation of all former points has arrived. The promise of it has weighed heavy in our hearts but now it runs through us and we run through it. The time for skipping around it has filtered away leaving the sediments of my life. A fated moment is unfolding itself around me and inviting me to step inside it.