Your hand

Microfiction

Your hand feels soft and cold.

My tears, traveling from my chin to your hand to the satin. A journey from life through death to your final destination.

Your hand is no longer comforting me, no longer squeezing back.

Everyone hates it. But I can’t. It’s what it is, can’t be anything else.

Your hand has firmly guided me, from birth through youth to adulthood; through adversity and joy.

No more white knuckles, no more unfair hell. Saved by an invisible assassin. A history-writing virus.

Your hand can finally rest.

Right now my only emotion is gratitude.

Rest in peace.