Hovering Hands

I have never been aware of it… wait that might be a slightly white lie I've constantly told myself. I have noticed it, but in the way one notices a truth not quite ready to be accepted yet, so they just push it to the side until the day comes that all that’s left to look at is ‘the side’ to which all things were pushed.

Still either way it is something not comfortable to confront, or at least for me. I have always been realistic, bent partially to the pessimistic, with great entry to the minds fantastic … yeah I used that because it rhymed.

Some say I'm creative, I’d strongly like to believe them because I tend to live in my mind, a place where all makes sense and things I push aside don’t quite have a chance to take centre stage. But, like creativity, reality is a very needed necessity and without it there would be no platform with which to build our fantasies with and so that which has been shoved, kicked and so on to the side has a tendency to come fighting to the centre stage, simply because we, who have exercised our minds to be the architects of our own inner worlds, have unwittingly given skills to our subconscious to find devious ways for us to confront our inner demons, at one point or another.

So, now I am left here staring at the proverbial stage of my mind, staring at what must be a very strange and disturbing sight to many, at first. An empty hand lay in the centre, as if emphasizing its point of needing to be taken note of. Normally I would just assume I have entered another weird part of my imagination and the story will soon unfold, but this time I don’t have the energy or even the will to fool myself, because I know.

I know that on this empty stage is something I have chosen to look away from for so long that I had hoped to have forgotten about by now, a truth I’d hoped would be lost. But who knew my inability to lie was so deeply ingrained as to even be unable to fool myself, I thought I’d gotten that right at least. But there was the truth, lying with its open palm beckoning me closer so that I could no longer look away.

But imagination is a powerful thing, what if that hand was the unfortunate severed limb from a victim taken by a serial killer in a story I had just written, or from a warrior who had fought valiantly in battle…

Oh, wait, there’s reality pushing in, refusing to be covered in fantasy again. How well it knows my tricks, the silent partner in the building plans of my imagination. Now it is isn't just a single empty hand that takes centre stage, slowly more fade in, except that these hands aren't so empty. No… these hands reinforce my understanding of why I know the hand in the centre.

The hands around are not empty, they clasp other hands and not just any way. These hands are clasp in a way that echoes passionately across the stage. A passion that makes it now impossible for me to ignore reality screaming at me to take note of why it’s called me to this stage.

The hands that fill the stage are clasped in loving embrace, all except for one. In the centre of the stage, where the light has lost its lustre, a single hand lays isolated and alone. Sure I could draw from my imagination once again and build a world around who or why or what the hand is, but the radiance of the embracing hands surrounding that one hand is too bright to close my eyes to and above all else, I know.

I know that hand is me. How is it that I am akin to an empty hand is indeed an interesting question. However, for me it isn't really a question at all. It is in fact my life.

Many interpretations can be taken from that, but for now, as I am faced with this proverbial stage that reality has forced upon my attention, I am pretty sure which one it aims for me to take note of. Like the truth I've chosen to avoid, it has come from ‘the side’ to grab my attention, shackle me to a chair and announce its presence. It’s here to preach to me of love.

Yes, love and isn't it always about that or the lack of that or even the over-abundance of it, either way love is always something that wiggles its annoying head into everything. It’s that pestering sibling you can never quite be rid of, or that fly that you just can’t kill. Hell I go so far as to say it’s that mosquito that finds you were ever you go, the stalker mosquito.

I have always known love and yet I have never known love. The truth of all man and woman alike until, of course, they’re lucky enough to be the embracing hands on the stage before me, oblivious to the worlds around them. Always dancing to a tune designed for them and mute to us observers who can only imagine what the harmony of the music is like.

I have known the love of parents, the greatest a child, especially one with a damaged mind, could ask for. That unconditional warmth too few are privy to and too many take for granted. That soft and sweet embrace, that can be taken far too soon, or be given far too late. That scented touch forever missed or never missed enough. I've known the clasp of their hands since mine was barely able to hold itself and yet this indescribable, unconditional love, is still only a hover above the empty hand that stands at centre stage.

I have known the protective pull of a sibling’s grasp, a brother’s shield. That reassuring tug of hope, that pulls you and pushes you along. That accepting grasp that reminds you who you are, no matter where you go and who you follow. That guiding hand, that shows you how it’s done and paves it for tomorrow. That allied shake that reminds one bonds are strong, even when distances are long. I have known the clasp of a big brother’s hand since before I knew the significance of its life impacting love and yet I know it’s but an echo of the hover above the empty hand that lay still in the centre of the stage.

I have known the love of family, the razor sharp burns of opening ones heart to those demanding it.

I have known the love of friends, the roller-coaster of dizzying success for those who request it. The crazy beat that stings one’s palms to keep open. The bumping knuckles, which pushes forward our joint understanding. The clapping rhythm, that moves us to joyous celebration. I have known the clasp of friendly camaraderie that lightens the soul and yet still it is only a hover above the hand that stays centre stage, alone.

Never have I known the love that dances around me, embracing to the tune that only they are privy to. 

Never have I heard the melody that sings the soft tune which sways one to pink fantasy, though many a fantasy I have, ironically, written.

I am that empty hand, because I know. I know nothing of a lover’s grasp, the warmth that holds you in place and reminds you, that you are wanted. I know nothing of that warm embrace that clasps one’s hand and dances to a tune known only to us. I know nothing of a hand within a hand of passion.

I am that hand in centre stage, surrounded by clasped hands, swaying to their happy melody, lost in their own sweet fantasy, many of which I'm sure I could create within my imagination. Around me the light seems dimmed and I am left cold and without a partner to whatever tune I'm meant to dance to.

I know. The hand and me, are one and the same, a truth long pushed to the side that now has forced its way to centre stage in order to be seen and heard. A truth no longer to be ignored, simply because with all the hands partnered around me, it’s very hard to not see that my hand has remained just a hover above the stages of their stories. Because isn't that what I am?

I am a sister, a daughter, a cousin, a niece, a friend and yet I have never been a girlfriend. As all those have been for me, I have been for them, just a hover above a palm.