If there is no hand to hold onto but your own

 

which is also one way

And you can also write about a time when you held someone's hand and they held yours. And it felt safe and like love and even a little scary because what happens when you feel, really feel, the edges and the softness, the rough and the smooth, support and surrender, curvy planets, someone's hand in yours, both holding and being held? It's a little sweaty, maybe, but that's okay, because it is love.

And writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.

Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved