The Story of a Hand

This is the story of a hand.  A small hand.  A hand that had the habit of slipping in and out of other hands.

              At the beginning of our tale, this small hand would take to gripping tightly to the fingers of the hands of giants.  The need to grip such sizable fingers with ferocious tenacity was born of trembling that tremored about the hand whenever the world grew dark or dangerous or unfamiliar. 

              Slowly over time the fierce squeeze of the hand lessened as the fingers of giants seemed to shrink in tandem to the world growing steadily into a knowable presence.  Only the occasion of great sudden startles and sharp stark shocks caused the hand to squeeze other, more familiar hands.  And other slips, the pressings of palm to palm, were born of equal wonder at the sheer delight of warmth and gentle ridges and tender skin

              Then came a day when the small hand slipped inside a trembling one—one that shook and sweated and wrung about in a chaotic frenzy. 

              It was this last touch that the small hand liked best of all, for it was the one that offered.

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