The Touch of Love

The stroke of the fingers…the warmth of the palm…the caressing touch…the love is evident in the touch of the hands. The touch of the hands is enough to lift my sagging spirit and heal my wounded soul, not forgetting the magic it creates in mending my battered and pain ridden body. I call this the healing touch. It’s not in the hands, nor in the massage, and neither in the balm being used. It’s simply love.

I’m talking about the touch of my parents’ hands. (What did you think??!!)

Whenever I’m down and out, be it fever or headache or something worse what provides instant relief is the touch of my parents’ hand. Be it my mother or my father, the moment they lay their hand on my forehead I feel a surge of energy. The sense of wellbeing returns. Be it the lightness of my Mother’s hand or the heaviness of my Father’s hand…what’s common is the experience of love. As she strokes my forehead to relieve me of a headache…as he places his palm on my forehead to check whether I’m running a temperature. Yes, it’s the touch of love.

No medicine, no balm, no counselling, no doctor can do what the touch of love can. It heals, it mends, its cures, it binds, it strengthens us. I almost wish to fall ill more often in order to experience this healing touch. Believe it or not, you have to experience it to know the healing touch. In the expression of love the physical connection is a must. Often, in the process of growing up we drift apart, not emotionally, but physically. The instances of touch reduce. It is only on rare occasions that the physical connect happens. But when it does, it’s one immense experience. Trust me…I’m still basking in the last one.