I want to hug her, but she is just bones and I’m afraid I will crush her. She lies old and frail in the bed, softly uttering words in a foreign tongue that I can only hope to understand. I hope she sees the despair and boundless apologies in my eyes, because words fail us both. I hope she knows. I hope.
I cannot offer her much, so every time I see her, I put my hand in hers. When our fingers are entwined and she looks at me with light in her eyes, I know she understands. She forgives me for our distance. For all my ignorance, I think that is love.