The off-and-on-again blog of Ron Mohring, whose plate is almost always overfilled.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Last night I dreamed I was sitting at the table in my parents' kitchen, listening as my brother talked, haltingly but urgently (can't remember what about), gesturing with his hands. As his right hand made a wide sweep, I suddenly caught it, mid-flight, and held tightly to his index and middle finger. He stopped talking. Our hands slowly sank to the table: his right, my left. With his ring finger, he gently stroked my fist. I opened my hand. He slipped his fingers out and then laid his hand fully on mine. And we sat there together, holding hands.
Two notes on this dream:
1) My brother is left-handed; I'm right-handed. We do not touch with our dominant hands.
2) I can't remember ever touching him as an adult.