There’s a reason we reach for hands, to steady a child learning to walk, to pull someone back from the pool’s edge, to high-five at a finish line, or squeeze tight at a wedding altar.

This week, I’m holding my mamma’s hand as she recovers from surgery. The hospital beeps, the future is uncertain, but her hand in mine carries decades of memory.

Science tells us that touch lowers stress and synchronises heartbeats and spiritual traditions say the palms are vessels of healing. I believe both.

Because as I sit by her bedside, rubbing coconut cream into her tired arms,I feel it, the current of all our shared adventures running backwards and forwards across the years.

Holding hands is simple. And it is everything.

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