The Touch that Lingers
"Of all the gifts we can give to people, the gift of our touch is one of the most priceless."
—Jan Phillips, Divining the Body
I held his hand. That was all I did. But it made a difference for him and for me. He was a patient in the ICU, sedated, scared, and breathing shallowly and unevenly. I sat with him and gently laid my hand over his. I encouraged him to breathe with me, slowly and evenly, in and out. And it worked. His eyes softened. His body started to let go of the grip of fear. But when I tried to leave, he wouldn't let go.
There was no aggression in it, just something raw and almost childlike, a silent plea. He didn't say a word, but his eyes did: Please don't go. Please stay a little longer. So I did. I sat back down and let him hold on, and slowly, the fear in his eyes began to fade. He drifted off to sleep, still holding my hand. I've held hundreds of hands in my career—some sweaty with fever, others brittle with age or grief—but I felt it differently this time. Maybe because I recognized something in him: a craving I know all too well.
Touch. Connection. A human presence that neither demands nor judges but is just there.
I used to have that feeling. Not in the usual way, no partner waiting for me at home. But I had Andrei. Later, I had Vlad. With them, touch became part of the rhythm of my dance life. The warm hug when I arrived at the studio. The arm around my waist as we moved across the dance floor. The lingering goodbye at the end of each lesson. It wasn't romantic, but it filled a space. It reminded me I was still in a body that needed to be seen and held.
Andrei provided me with physicality without entanglement. He was affectionate, attentive, and, for fourteen years, my greatest champion. But I never had to take him home. I didn't have to negotiate his stubborn moods or navigate the complexities of a partnership. I could leave the studio and return to the quiet of my life, untouched by the messier aspects of intimacy. That arrangement worked—until it didn't.
Now, in Virginia, that thread of physical contact has quietly come apart. After a long shift, I walked my small dog through the dim streets tonight. My body still felt heavy with the imprint of that patient's grip. And the loneliness slipped in, not the kind solved by phone calls or texts, but the kind that lives in the skin, the kind that whispers, "When was the last time someone really held you?"
My daughter Rachel called last night. At forty, she has her first steady boyfriend. She sounded different, softer, and content. She said, "Mom, having someone in your life after years alone is exhausting but kind of wonderful." I laughed. I understood. We're both women who thrive on solitude and need quiet and space. But when someone safe steps in, someone who wants to share the weight of life, it stirs something ancient in us.
Still, I wonder: Am I craving love or just touch? Do I want the complicated mess of a relationship or simply someone to hold my hand when the day has been overwhelming?
Tonight, the answer feels simple. I want someone to pull me into a strong, steady hug and say, “It’s going to be okay.” That’s it. No solutions, no expectations. Just the warmth of another person reminding me I’m not alone.
Maybe I idealize it; maybe I always have. I picture someone playful, wise, and soulful—someone who would hike through forests with me and talk about the stars, someone with a body that remembers the rhythms of tenderness. Still, I don't meet many new people these days. And online dating? Please. Still, I hold hope—not desperately, but quietly.
I've learned that the body stores grief in its muscles and keeps memory in its bones. But it also holds hope— in the gentle curve of an open palm, in the moment someone doesn't let go too soon, and in the faint possibility that one day, someone might reach out and choose to stay a little longer.
Until then, I’ll keep holding hands and offering the comfort I long for. Maybe that’s its own kind of love.
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