Reaching Out

Sitting beside the deathbed, I noticed that the last efforts of the woman were to reach out her hand. 

Was she reaching for water? prayer beads? a photograph? 

Her reach was unwearying. I took her hand. She squeezed mine and then was able to rest.

It reminded me of my children when they were small. Darkness made them reach their tiny hands between the bars of the crib. They never tired of reaching until their hand could hold mine. They wanted to be reassured that comfort and safety...