The ache, soft sometimes, that comes with the slow uncurling of fingers.
The rhythmic release, repeated slowly, gently, rocking back and forth in a quiet tug-of-war.
Thoughts of what is lost, sway forward to thoughts of what could be discovered.
Remembering Who it is that loves first.
Then stillness, surrender, and slow relinquishing of control, of dreams, of all that lay in sweating palms.
A smile curls on face, corners of mouth lifted by joy.