My arms wrapped around you, yours around me.
We stand together in our now natural hug.
Although my height is sometimes a challenge
You feel warm; your back is straight and toned.

How does our hug feel from your side?
Does my back feel firm or yielding?
What is the sensation under your fingers?
Of the fabric next to my skin, my undergarments?

Our hug is just one
Of a striking variety we receive in a lifetime
From friends, lovers, family, near-strangers
An act seemingly simple but in truth, complex

The first hug you remember from childhood: your Mum
Warm and safe, and maybe a little squeezed
But her blouse is soft, and her arms reach around you nearly twice.
You are so small, and she is so big.

Your teen-age years, acquaintances: single arm hug
Air kisses, a quick pat, a gentle rub
It’s social hugging to keep up appearances
Feeling awkward, you’d rather shake hands

Your first true love – long, grasping, gasping embraces
That leave invisible marks on your clothing and skin underneath
A desire for another, the promise of more
Maybe in future, the touch of your fingertips on clothing-free skin.

Again a hug from your Mum, 40 years after her first
The alignment is different; somehow she has shrunk
Still warm and safe, yet with a different body tone
A kiss on her cheek is soft to your lips – a hug to last the ages.

Finally. I have started to read
The book you generously gave me
More than ten years ago.

At that time I didn’t recognize
Its hidden value; the connection to you

And now I wish we could share its contents
How the story is told
But you are gone

Buried, in a beautiful blue urn
Atop your mum, in a cemetery far away

How I regret that I
Waited so long to pull out this treasure
To read it, and enjoy the story

And yet, it makes me think of you
A welcome, if sad reminder

It takes just an instant.
One moment (year, decade) you’re
Minding your own business

The lens you’ve been looking through
Is gone.
And you’ve metamorphosed

In your consciousness, it’s 1972, 1984, 1993
But the number of pages torn
From the calendar is too many.

Not exactly “where did all the time go?”
More like “when did the time go?”
And also, where were you?

When time was passing?
Subtlety is all but too thin
To elucidate all that’s changed

The Sun's rays slide through the window
Hitting the back of the white curtains lined green
To block out the light of the city at night
And the early brightness in summer

The wind lifts the tree branches in a gentle dance
Swaying this way and that, leaves soundlessly fluttering
Performing a tale as old as time and trees themselves
Nature's Wayang Kulit, shadows frolicking on a silken screen