Holding Hands with a Ghost

As I drift between sleep and waking, I feel her again.

She stands next to the bed, looking at me. That is always the time she chooses to visit me. Rarely during sleep, but on the edge of it.

Her face looks different. Rather than solemnity or sadness, it exudes contentment and peace.

We reach for each other. My larger hand envelops her smaller one. The bumpy, delicate outline of her fingers and palm is so familiar. She inherited those long fingers from me.

I serenely drift off to sleep. In the morning, I remember and smile. A glow fills my heart.

I was finally brave enough to reach for her hand.

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