TOUCH

8 o’clock Easter morning my son calls, “Are you ready for the hunt?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” I answer sitting by the fire with Samuel.

And off we go, my son holding the phone as they traipse around the yard looking for eggs. It is almost as much fun as being there.

Later my other son calls, and we do the same as his little daughter excitedly finds her eggs hidden in grass, rock walls, and along the walkway.

Then we go into their homes (virtually) while they open the eggs and discover the goodies, chocolate bunnies losing their ears immediately.

Still, it is a strange and lonely Easter. The feelings of not touching my grand-children despite the ache of wanting to hug them lingers as the day passes. That closeness is so necessary, with thoughts of the months to come without it adding to the sadness.

Even with a lifestyle that is more reclusive than many, this rift between virtual and real touch takes its toll. Then a news clip of a woman and her husband in Texas.

Tears escape her eyes as she tells the story of the areas poverty with food banks shutting down because volunteers need to stay safe. She eats one day, he doesn’t, and then they switch the next day to make what little food they have last.

I don’t have the right to feel sad.  

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