Touch.

One of you suggested a massage, or some safe touch. That notion has stayed on my mind.

I lie awake either at night or in the morning and think about hands on my body. And of course, the first context I think of is sexual. Climbing near-naked into bed, having hands reach for me to draw me close, then a mouth on mine . . .

Yes, that sounds fine right about now.

But then I remember that part about being touched without having to give anything back. I dial back my mind and think of a massage. Theoretically it sounds terrific, but too clinical since I don't know her face or her hands or even the room.

So the next scenerio to cross my mind is being touched by a friend. But hell, I don't trust my male friends to keep it platonic. And I'm not that intimate with my local girlfriends.

But those women and men are out there, who know me and love me. Who would, if they saw me, wrap their arms around me and hold hold hold on to me until they were holding me up.

And that's where I end up, imagining my friends gathered around me to lay their hands on me, lending me whatever I need, but most notably being present and connected to my struggle. Then I understand that I am getting this, with every email and call that these far-flung friends send my way. All I need to do is ask. They are here.