These are the days

I’d say most of my life I’ve tried to make meaning out of things. Maybe that’s just what daydreamers do—romantics, Enneagram-whatevers, poets, whomever. But lately, there’s no “meaning to be made”—only these tiny hands that give me more meaning than any pursuit or purpose ever could.

The purpose is simply to hold their hand. To savor every moment of it.

“These are the days,” I remind myself, again and again, as the mundane threatens to swallow me. But truly, these are the days. And I want nothing more than to be swallowed by them. To feel—to know—nothing else but the hands I hold, the ones that seem to pump oxygen through my body.

Three squeezes mean I love you. Four answers back: I love you, too.

One, two, three, I squeeze.
One, two, three, four, I feel back.

And I’m alive. As alive as I’ll ever be.