On the way into work, the radio was airing a story on touch. One of the senses people often forget about and may not realize is so important. And I began to cry. The memory of my daughter’s soft little bunny feet. I could have rubbed my fingers against the bottom of her feet for hours. Sometimes I did. It seems that everyone who met her and touched those little feet said the same thing. So soft.
I felt that familiar ache. The one where I swear my heart is actually in pieces. The one where just for a heartbeat I can feel her again.
Her weight against my chest.
Her breath on my skin.
The tickle of her hair.
Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.