His hand reached for mine, fingers curling around and in between my my own. Reassurance in the solidness of that hand, the gentle strength within those fingers. Comfort at his nearness, at his very being; at least I wasn’t alone.
No words passed between us, they didn’t have to for it was all conveyed in his hand and fingers. His other hand soothed my hair, which no doubt was a mess, again. Not that it mattered, not at that time.
In reality we had probably been there for a half hour, waiting for the medication to kick in although it seemed like hours. I hadn’t wanted to be here, not even for a minute, but he had come home, taken a look at me and insisted that we go. That they do something for the pain because what I had at home wasn’t working.
It’s a funny, wonderful thing, how you can say so much without ever using words. A simple gesture, touch or look can say as much or sometimes more than formed words ever could. Of course the problem with that is the other person may not grasp the exact meaning, but it’s a risk you sometimes have to take.
He didn’t have to remain silent, just because I tend to when the pain is bad. He could have spoken, but instead he used touch and nearness to com minute most of the time. Now and then he’d whisper a few words, soothing and comforting as we let time stretch.
In that silence, as the pain levels started to drop slightly from an insistent loud roar to something a little more soft, I studied his face. A face I knew well and yet didn’t, for it changes with emotions and time. I ran a finger along the scar he has, proudly received from some childhood battle over a toy. I smoothed the deep crease of worry from his brow and marveled again at how few words had passed between the two of us during this time.
Perhaps when we are comfortable with one another we cease to need to fill the space with activity and sounds. We can rest peaceful and confident in our own comfort with one another. We can be authentic and hold to other means of communication.
Perhaps it was the nature of the trip and the fact he had taken me to a hospital that had rendered speech so unnecessary. And perhaps it was fear and love that stole our words and left us seeking another means.
Not even on the ride home, after the doctor decided I could leave because there was someone there to watch over me, not even then did we speak much. He held my hand as he drove. He lifted me out of the car and carried me to the bedroom without a word. Silently and gently he sat with me as sleep slowly came over me, words floating in my head and then away.
Too bad for him that I hand t said much before because when I awoke the words burst forth through the dam of silence to babble along like a small brook playing with the rocks.