“The mozzarella sticks were that good—you wanted more?” he asked, setting the plate down on the table. He was one of the cooks at the small diner where we were eating, stepping in to help while the lone waitress rushed between too many tables.

I slammed on the brakes and forced the car to a stop. I leapt out, leaving the door hanging open, and ran through the snow toward his body. I had seen him from the road—someone I loved deeply—lying lifeless on a snowbank on that frosty Friday morning.

It is that kind of morning 

curled into the couch,

wrapped in a blanket,

eyes resting in the quiet dance of fire.

I had a vision come through that was so clear, so alive, that I tried to push it away. And then it came back.

The way energy does when it knows itself.
The way truth doesn’t negotiate.

It was as if it said, “You can play hard to get if you want — I’m not leaving.”

For most of this lifetime, I struggled to receive.

Love.
Blessings.
Gifts wrapped in paper and gifts wrapped in moments.
Soft words.
Open arms.
Even the simple grace of a door held open.

Receiving made my body bristle. My skin would prickle, my chest would tighten, and something ancient inside me would try to flee. It was as if my nervous system didn’t recognize being met as safe. I felt the energy before I felt the meaning — and the energy felt like too much.

When I was a child, my father would hold me, and my entire being would relax. My little body knew it didn’t have to hold itself up in those moments. I can still remember pretending to fall asleep just so he would carry me to bed—just so I could stay in that feeling a little longer.

That longing to be held has lived inside me for as long as I’ve known myself.

She opened the door just as I stepped up the porch, both hands balancing a hot lasagna. I slipped off my shoes and crossed the threshold—my first time inside their home after countless driveway conversations.

“You better be careful,” he said, grinning.

Careful? Of what? My mind darted in a dozen directions—dogs, cats, the rug?

I was available to the wisdom that they brought- each time my eyes gently landed on them, I watched their evolution, I watched the natural unfolding of the roses and how beautiful it was so just allow the unfolding and to cherish every phase of the unfolding because each phase brought its own expression of beauty. I understood that I was no different than the rose, I am unfolding naturally and each phase of me unfolding carries different forms of beauty, no one more beautiful than the other, simply different.

Just before waking, I drifted in that hazy space between dreaming and daylight, a gentle fantasy unfolding in my mind. It was a soft, delicious way to meet the morning—warm, slow, and alive.

As my eyes blinked open and the edges of the fantasy began to dissolve, one detail lingered: he was talking to me. In nearly every fantasy I have, there are always words—connection, conversation, presence. I paused, let the moment stretch, and listened inward.

I slipped off my robe and stepped into the warm water of the hot tub. Curling into the corner, I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.

Emotion rose through me like a slow, inevitable wave. A warm tear slid down my cheek as a quiet whimper escaped—straight from my heart.

I miss being touched, I thought, as another small sound broke from my body.