Finger tips.

She sat across from me in first grade. We were the last two little kids at the end of the table that seated six. The chairs and tables were built for our tiny bodies. Teachers, Assistants, and anyone over the age of thirteen, hovered over us at our tables. I remember everything about that first day of school.

I was seven.

*****

He sat across from me at the big table they put us at. I was a little taller than him - that wouldn’t change until we sat across from each other in Tenth grade. This was First Grade though, and High School was still a very long way off. The chairs were the perfect height for me- and him. The table was just wide enough that if he put his arm all the way out, and I did the same…our fingers tips would touch. And they did.

I was six.

*****

She sat next to me in Ninth Grade. Her desk was the last one in the first row, mine was the last desk in the second row. Once we got settled in, putting our books in the rack under the seat, and clearing our desk tops for our first class of the year we looked at each other and smiled. There was just enough room in the aisle for our arms to hang down by our sides, with just a little reach, we could touch each other’s finger tips. So we did.

I was fifteen.

*****

We didn’t plan it, at least not consciously. Maybe the Teacher knew about us. Or maybe Cosmic Karma understood. Whatever the reason, there he was sitting at the end of the second row. His desk right across from mine. My smile matched his as I flowed up the aisle to take a place I was familiar with- beside him. Once I put everything under my desk in the little cradle there for our books- I let my arm dangle in the aisle. So did he. I only had to move my hand a few inches for our finger tips to touch. So I did.

I was fourteen.

*****

The Hall was packed. She stood next to me in the front row. None of us wanted to sit down. Four long years of College was over. It was Graduation Day. We were supposed to stand next to each other in alphabetical order. We didn’t care. Nobody else in our Class did either. They made room for her and I to be side by side. Our hands hanging outside our robes were barely a finger width apart. Just by turning our hands a little bit our finger tips would touch. So we turned our hands just a little bit. Our finger tips touched.

I was 22.

*****

His last name began with an “H”, mine began with an “M”- there is no way we should have been standing side by side. The Administration was not happy with us. It didn’t matter- the whole class wanted us side by side and we wanted that too. So the “H’s” made room for an “M” to squeeze in among them. We were packed in like sardines, or penguins fighting the cold- so close that if I just turned my hand a little to the left, I could touch his finger tips. So I turned my hand towards his, our finger tips touched.

I was 21.

*****

The table was small. A two top in a cozy little coffee shop. She sat across from me. Her face was sad, sagging with the emotion of telling me her feelings had changed. One of her hands held her Latte as if that would give her support. Her other hand was flat on the table, her fingers millimeters from mine. If she had moved her hand even a hair, our finger tips would have touched. They did not. She said: “Good bye.”

I was 27.

*****

His face looked more like a puppy that had just been scolded than a human face. I half expected him to whimper. It would have broken me. It was hard enough to realize that his hand was almost touching mine. I could feel my finger tips wanting to close the gap. I couldn’t. It was over. I had to tell him. So I did. Watching him walk away, my finger tips wanted to run after him. I wouldn’t let them.

I was 26.

*****

I don’t know what happened in her life. Why she was on the other side of the counter filling my order. We didn’t say much. She put my order down on the counter, her hand holding my receipt stretched out to give it to me. I took it. My finger tips lightly touching hers. She didn’t let go of the receipt. I didn’t let go of her finger tips. Nobody was behind me in line, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I still wouldn’t have let go. We still hadn’t said much. Our eyes were talking.

I was 39.

*****

I saw him come in the door. I tried to get Maggie’s attention to take over the Cash Register. I wasn’t quick enough. He stepped up and ordered a Number 3. (I knew he would) “Water please, no soda.” (which I also expected) I rang him up, placed his order tray on the counter and handed him his receipt. He reached out to take the receipt and our finger tips were so close they touched. I wanted to let go, but couldn’t. He did not want to let go…and didn’t. My eyes started talking as they teared up.

I was 38.

*****

I walked up onto the Altar. I smiled at her two daughters: Emily- twelve, Becky- nine. The lit up when I went by, throwing almost their whole basket of flowers at me. They weren’t my children, but they were my daughters. She was dressed in a simple summer dress with a light flowered print and no sleeves. Perfect for a muggy hot day near the ocean. I got to the top of the Altar and stopped just inches away from her. She turned to face me, our hands were facing each other too. Finger tip to finger tip we stood - alone in a crowd as the Preacher read words we didn’t need.

I was 41.

*****

He came down the aisle towards me. It was evident he only had eyes for me. Oh, he did stop to give a warm smile to Emily and Becky - one that made them both light up and fling flowers at him like a dust devil had hit their basket of flowers. That just made my smile broader. He walked up next to me in his formal board shorts and Hawaiian shirt- perfect for the sweat soaked material we both wore. He turned to face me- our finger tips only an inch apart. That was unacceptable to me- I reached out until our finger tips touched. I saw in his eyes, it was the right thing to do.

I was forty.

*****

She sat next to the Hospital Bed. I couldn’t lift my hand from the sheets. She took the covers off my hand and placed her finger tips to touch mine. It was all I needed. The Doctors said it was a major heart attack and I needed plenty of rest. I know all I needed was her finger tips touching mine. I would be alright. And I was.

I was sixty two.

*****

He looked so frail and gray stuffed into that big bed. The white sheets did nothing to hide his pallor from me. He was trying to be strong, but his heart wasn’t in it- literally. The Doctor had told me that vein in the heart was called the Widow Maker for a reason. I was beyond reason. I just needed his finger tips to touch mine. I lifted his hand out from under the sheets- because he couldn’t. I gently place his hand outside the covers so I could place my hand near his. Our finger tips met…it would be okay.

I was sixty one.

*****

This story hasn’t ended yet. Just picture an elderly couple sitting on a bench watching their now grown grandchildren. There is just enough space between them for their hands to rest side by side, only their finger tips touching. You would smile if you saw them, they would smile back. They might wave back with their free hands, but the two hands on the bench stay touching each other.

Finger tip to Finger tip.