The Hand

Sometimes it takes something so simple, so ordinary, to make you remember a memory you’ve forgotten. Like an old song that comes on the radio reminds you of the person who made you a mix tape. Or the taste of Cornetto ice cream reminds you of the mini celebration of a sweet victory with your best friend. 

I replayed the scenario in my head over and over again. I remembered how, against my better judgement, I tried to get on the Bosu ball, one feet on each end. I could not tell if my legs were trembling uncontrollably or the lack of core control, or both, but needless to say, I stumbled over quickly.

I tried and failed several times before I accepted H’s extended hand for support. My heart fluttered. I could not remember the last time I clasped someone else’s palm in mine, feeling the way I felt then…

….until I did.

I haven’t thought about this in the longest time. I remembered the first time I felt you, I felt a mixed emotion of confusion and security and a tint of fear. I knew then, at 15, with absolute clarity that we are not the only ones living in this world. Like oil and water, we co-exist with another dimension that only some could see.

I remembered as I closed my palms into an almost fist and you returned the grip with the same amount of force. Each seconds that ticked by felt like eternity and I could hear my heart beating. Finally, I  softened my grip, whispered for you to leave, and counted to five, before I opened my eyes to the stillness of the night.

 While I have felt many kinds of you over the years, with my latest experience dating over two years ago, I like to think that like us, your stay on Earth is just temporary.

Until you find your way to where you belong.

6 thoughts on “The Hand

  1. kirizar says:

    I found this intriguing, if a bit puzzling. The first part of the story seems straightforward, talking about what sounds like a piece of exercise equipment and someone called ‘H’. But then it switches gears, and you are talking to an unknown ‘You’. (Who I suspect is the mysterious ‘H’.) You can tell it is a haunting conversation, with someone who has died but hasn’t left you, but the reader isn’t sure whether the conversation is ‘real’ or imagined as if the person were still here. Very surreal. As I know loss myself, I recognize that putting the intangible mix of emotions into words is clumsy and never encompasses what we feel. Efforts always seem to fall short of the strength of even the smallest experience. Is this intended as fiction or is it more personal?

    • Jill says:

      Hi Kirizar,

      You’re right, My story telling has always been clumsy and almost always come to an abrupt end.

      H and “you” are two unrelated beings. H exists in my world but the “you” does not. At least not in our physical world. When I first felt the “you” in the story, I have not lost anyone close. I’ll like to think that in some crooked way, it’s telling me that I’m not that alone (I was going through an odd phase then).

      This story is personal (and very real!). I had been feeling conflicted and confused recently; no thanks to my brain which has a tendency to link two seemingly unrelated scenarios!

      • kirizar says:

        Then I am sorry I made a comment which was not intended to be critical, but probably came across as that. I know too well how easily people say the wrong thing in a time of grieving. I hope I did not offend.

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