Touch

 

Touch

Noel Laflin

12-15-22

When I want Tom’s spirit to feel something, I use my left hand, as he was left-handed in life; I don’t know if it matters after death, but I figure, if it does, then a touch by the left hand, at least, in his case, might be best. He had a very creative mind - a trait of many lefties - an artist, in fact - and a little white witch, too, or so he claimed. As I always did believe his claim of benign good witchery, and certainly did respect, not to mention envy, his creativity, I touch with the left.

I have no concrete proof that I’m crazy when I want to share something with a soul long gone thirty years, come Christmas Eve, but I take comfort in talking to my old friend all the time still, via my left hand, even if I never get a reply in return. Oh, sure, a feeling of connection happens occasionally, and maybe the lights flicker in the house in a verbal exchange sometimes, too, but that’s about it. And this sure beats the likes of Jacob Marley's return on Christmas Eve. But, then again, Tom was never a businessman, forging chains of regret, link by link. Tom only forged chains of beauty, garden by garden, pond by pond, canvas by canvas.

I was thinking such thoughts today as I passed a eucalyptus tree that had the smoothest texture to its bark; I immediately thought it would be something that Tom would like to feel as well.  So, I reached out and ran my left hand slowly along the base of the giant tree – a tree that has probably stood in place for over a century, a solitary proud member of a windbreak row of trees that once protected an orange grove. The grove and most of the other members of the old wind guard are gone to history now, but somehow this one still remains. 

I think he, Tom, liked the feel of that old tree, too, but maybe he feels them so much better wherever he resides now.  Dimensions in time and space are a tricky field, I suppose, so what do I really know?

Many times I will pat other trees and rocks that I feel compelled to share with the lad, especially familiar rocks and trees in the garden that he originally designed and implemented nearly forty years ago.  I rested my left hand on old cinder blocks that once outlined the original pond today, and mentioned that the fish in the newer pond were doing fine and the water was clear and fresh following the recent weekend storm.

Again, there was no response, but, that’s alright for now.

I figure there will be a lot of catching up to do sometime in the future, whenever we meet up again.

But until then, I just pass along the things that matter via a pat, touch, or passing of a hand – a left hand (even if I am a little bonkers, and a right-hander myself), just to make sure that little white witch is feeling it too.