Daddy's hand

They come at odd moments, these visions. I lie in my bed, or recline on the couch, still in my nightgown and surrounded by tissues sodden with green mucus, and the vision slips into my unguarded mind.

His hand.

I see it at rest, his hand, settled on his bare knee as I kneel low before him, working my dependable magic with my own hand on his cock. It speaks of strength, this hand. There is strength and confidence and firmness and, yes, tenderness, even vulnerability. Normally, there isn't much time for self-indulgent observation, but clearly I have snatched enough loving glances for the image to have lodged in that large area of my brain devoted to him. It sits there, a photograph shimmering within my cells.

Sometimes, I wish I could reach out and touch it.
Caress it.

Even now, as I sit here under the pale blue afghan knitted for me all those decades ago by my first mother-in-law, I can feel the muscles of my arm trying to extend the palm of my hand towards the top of his. I can feel his skin as he accepts my gentle petting. My touches are tenuous, as I am never sure if these shows of affection are acceptable.

They always are.
He knows what comes with them.
He knows this need I have to reach out to him.
To touch him.
With a hand.
With a word.
To close the gap that separates us,
be it an inch or,
like today,
the changing miles as he goes about his day.

I miss you, Daddy.
Let's both get well very soon.