I sit here and watch the hairdressers hands, supple and assured, glide through the blonde strands of my wife’s hair and I find myself praying to a God with no name and a Trinity that has less to do with faith and charity and more to do with hope, desperation and isolation, that this professional touch will do more to lift her mood than all the Amitryptaline and Sertraline that went before it.
The depression that has gripped her mind is not destroying her body -not yet-but it is in the process of removing her soul from it, replacing the brightest and most vivid eyes with dull, expressionless blanks. There is no reflection of reality in there, no sight of who I am or what I mean to her buried beneath the confusion of her gaze; just the merest grasp of recognition from my touch.
In my hand lies hers, hot and limp. Segmented joints in her fingers twitch independently of one another as they touch and outline my palm, spidering their way backwards and forwards across my skin as they take on sensation and translate it into conversation.
Two words, three if I’m being optimistic, and her voice lifts my expression involuntarily, autonomically, much in the same way that ones breath causes the rise and fall of ones chest and reassures you that life is not only present, but is continuing without your conscious effort. The lift her voice produces in my heart is born of effort, and all the more precious because of it.
My ears are attuned to hope and heart is full of longing.