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Robert Steger

Mrs. Gardner

English 10H, Period 6

30 January 2017

The Prowess of Touch

I anxiously drift into the hospital room, it has been more than a year since I last saw him,

yet now I see him so vividly. So much has changed. Hey, C.J.

He replies in a faint tone that holds energy and hope. Hey, Robert, its been a long

time. I forgot how his voice sounded, yet I knew it was his, as only he could have a tone so

filled with energy and hope at the darkest of times. I nervously clank down towards his hospital

bed where he lays, and reach out my arm to shake his hand. Our hands intertwine and become

one; our emotions travel between us, although without saying a word everything is unfolded. As

our hands unite, I can remember so much: how we competed to win thunder in basketball, how

we would hang out and play Legos for hours on end, and how together we dreamed of endless

futures. Our conversation after was bland and dull, forgettable. I was emotionless.

July 15, 2014, weeks after our last encounter, I laugh talking to Shreyas, Ali, and Hunter

as we play an intense game of Fifa 15; however, suddenly Hunter switches to an unforgettable

topic, Hey, did you guys hear that C.J. died? I say nothing. I dont whimper or cry. I dont

think, but ignore it.

Midnight, one of the worst days in my life, I finally realize that one of the greatest people

I have ever encountered died. I cry. It took 12 hours to finally understand what has happened, but

I cry. I cry for all the promises we made as children--We are going to climb Mount Everest or
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We are going to become Lego designers when we get older--that we can never finish now. The

dream I had that once C.J. overcame leukemia we would be sitting together at a table, in any

location, with our orange wrist bands having a casual conversation, became a fantasy. The

memory of us standing together chanting, And I do appreciate you being 'round to Help, by

The Beatles, at Meadow School Elementary in the gymnasium was no longer reality. Casimir

Joseph Banaszek IV, a boy who I watched grow up, became an influential figure in my life, and I

never told him what he meant to me. So many opportunities, but at the greatest moment where

we stood face to face I shyed away. The one thing that I can never forgive myself for is not

saying I cherish you. Three words that I couldnt tell him and now I can never tell him. As I

lay in bed with my hands over my face, I can feel the dried tears on my palm, which melt into

my pores. From the moment our hands united to share my compassion in the hospital to where

the moments I spent crying with the emotion of regret and sorrow; my hands became the true

bearers of our memories together.

What is the difference between a handshake and a hug? Does one symbolize more than

the other? My hands reached around Madrina, my aunt, engulfing her chest with mine, my hands

feel the soft, red, silk material that generated her sweatshirt. As she was about to leave my

sisters high school graduation I waved and shouted, Bye, hoping she would hear. Since I have

known her, our conversation consisted of a Hey and then a Bye, and our interaction

consisted of a hug when she arrived and a hug when she departed. That was our simple

relationship. Two months after my sisters graduation, my mother came into my room to talk. I

had just heard her on the phone and thought that she was going to say some sort of horrible news

from the way she looked, Madrina is sick, and in the hospital.
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Oh, okay, I answer hesitantly, trying to ignore the topic. I was afraid of the future.

One week later from the awkward conversation of my mother and I, my mother reveals that

Madrina died. If only I listened to my mother, then maybe I could have talked to Madrina one

last time, but now it was too late and my thoughts were meaningless; however, the last memory

we shared was priceless. It was the only hug I can remember; I can feel the silk in my hands as if

she were in front of me, but she's not. She is gone forever and I have not accepted it. I had not

mourned or cried over her death until January 23, 2017 as I wrote this. It took five months to

finally realize Madrina had died.

My hands shake as tears roll down my eyes and sled along the pores of my cheek

repeatedly pounding against the backside of my corroded hand. I never noticed it until now, she

was there for everything: the greatest moments in which I achieved in life, she was there. She

was there when I graduated Meadow Elementary School; she was at every Thanksgiving, and

most importantly; she was there at every birthday I could remember. It was a one-sided

relationship and I never expressed how much she truly meant to me, although she did. Every hug

we have ever had was her expression of how much she loved me. She may have never said, I

love you, but her hugs were more powerful than words. They were connections we had that

created memories in which only our hands could hold and unite us. The hugs, however, were

one-sided as well. My hugs were meaningless and rushed, but hers were filled with emotion and

care. It took fifteen years, nine months, and twenty three days to figure out how much Madrina

cherished, cared, and loved me; however, it is too late, she has passed away and now I can never

share my love towards her. As the tears are absorbed into my hand they become the memories
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we shared, many small and unimportant, but when brought together, they all resembled the same

thing: Love.

As time continues onward and as I grow older, my hands have become the memory book

of my touch. My heart may contain my emotions of love, passion, pain, and sorrow; although,

my hands experience these emotions through a physical form. The tears I have shed throughout

my life, the earthquakes my body has endured, the interactions of loved ones; my hand has

experienced them all, and have absorbed each memory into each pore. My understanding of

these almighty memory books started as my curiosity bloomed.

Uncle Harry, a man of great wisdom and stature in my family, allowed me to understand

the true complexity of my hand through a game of Would You Rather. Hey, Uncle Harry, let's

do one more, please! I have a good one. Would you rather lose your arm or you leg?

My leg, without a doubt, he firmly stated.

Why? I curiously ask.

Well, you see, Robby, if I were to lose my arm, I would lose my hands which is

something I could not live without. Hands are very precious to me, they allow me to experience

the world and universe, and most importantly they allow me to touch my loved ones. He placed

his hand on my shoulder as he looks down on me and smiles with a memorable grin: When you

really think about it, hands are kind of like a memory book. They hold everything you love and

theyll stay there forever. Kinda handy, huh? Thats why you must touch everything like youre

Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. Ha, ha, well, Robby, it was fun playing, but I have to

go. Ill seeya around, kid.

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Bye, Uncle Harry. As Uncle Harry departs from our home I began to wonder why he

didnt choose arm. I needed to search for another answer of why the hand is so precious. As I

researched I stumbled upon many medical sites and eventually found the medical definition of a

hand at The Medical Dictionary which stated, hand, a complex musculoskeletal structure,

allowing the complexity of movements required. That was the answer, complexity, at least for

myself, a nine-year old student; however, now as I look back on this moment it was not the

complexity of the hand, but the complexity of movements which generated memories. The

memory book, as Uncle Harry believed, and now I, contained more than just touch and

experience, but emotions of sorrow, misery, passion, and love.

I stride into the hospital room filled with courage, love, pride, and every emotion my

body can maintain, I sit on Abuelitos hospital bed and clutch his hands to bring him closer to me

so I can grasp him with all my emotion. Hola, Abuelito.

He replies faintly, Hola, Robby.

Shy away, emotionless, these refrained thoughts dissolved as our conversation continues,

I become more passionate towards every word as my mouth spills, I love you. I finally say the

three words, yet so much more is told. Our memories are shared; we cry. Not tears of sorrow, or

melancholy, but tears of remorse and pleasure. The hug and handshake intertwined our memories

and emotions into a completed section of my memory book through the miracle of my hands.