I get cold easily.
With just a gust of wind, I shiver. If I go into a cooler place, my hands are already frozen.
When I touch the hands of my mother’s, or my best friends, or my sisters and brother’s, their hands are always warm. Which means mine’s are cold.
“Feels so good,” I say as they look on with amusement.
I hold on to them longer, massaging my fingers in their warmth and comfort until my hands get warm too.
And as I warm my hands I talk to my favorite people. And they talk back to me. Or I just sit and listen to them, my hands in theirs, my heart slowing and no longer shivering.
Maybe it is a good thing my hands get cold quickly.
If they were always warm, I might not feel compelled to touch others.