Touch

I really can't remember the last time I reached out to touch sunlight - if I ever did.

Nearly every time it rains, I would stick my palm out into the vertical labyrinth of falling raindrops so I could feel them. Sometimes, they're lighter and more insubstantial than the flutter of a butterfly's wings; sometimes, they so heavily pregnant they sting like hail.

This afternoon, walking down the block home with two packets of food dangling from the fingers of my left hand, I was studying the back of my right hand. Under the strong noon sun, my skin was pale but lightly tinged pink from the heat, and aquamarine veins were noticeable.

After awhile, I turned my hand over to study my palm. There were more lines on it than I remember (and deeper too), and it was healthily rosy even though the complex spider web of veins was clearly visible. Then, I became aware of the sun's heat on my palm.

I just left my palm turned up to the sun; it was a feeling I haven't seem to feel before: it felt like I was holding globule of sunshine in my hand.

All of a sudden, it occurred to me that I have never touched the warmth of the sun, never even thought to do it (or, if I ever had, I couldn't remember when), and I wondered why ever not; after all, I put out a cupped hand for raindrops all the time, so why not for sun beams?

Had I just assumed that there are just some things that can be felt but never touched?

But I'd touched sunlight this afternoon - I did. And it felt magically exquisite.



Maybe one day I'd touch my Dream.