“I want someone to sit beside after the day's pursuit and all its anguish, after its listening, and its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarrelling and reconciliation I need privacy - to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves
A friend sent me a poem he wrote, and in it were these lines:
Though I come empty-handed
It is only so your hands may find solace in mine
Which were so beautiful (the whole poem was rather beautiful, although some lines were a little verbose) and reminded me of the last scene in Alcott's Good Wives when Jo slips her hands into Bhaer's.
'But I have nothing to give you, my hands are empty.'
'Not empty now.'
I've always not known what to do with my hands. Sometimes I put them in my pockets to hide them, other times I dance them along the tops of fences and walls so they have some sort of anchor in reality and are not left to their own devices. Maybe love is when anxious hands find their homes in other hands.
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