I had the sudden urge to touch you today, an overwhelming desire to take your face in my hands. My hands, not anyone else’s. I imagined it the way a mother might cup the face of her son when he is grown, knowing he is long past protecting but wanting still to smooth the worry lines from his brow and the corners of his eyes. I saw it so clearly, my raised arms, your bowed head. I could feel the hint of stubble on your cheeks and the light tickle of your hair. I touch you through proxy, I know the shape of your mouth and the curve of your jaw from another’s fingers, but this was different. The hands I used were not borrowed, but mine; small, beringed, unsteady. The longing came and went in the space of a second, but the memory of what my own hands touched lingers.