Hugs

My husband and I binge watched a harrowing TV series this week. In it hugs were mentioned, used and perceived in various ways. It had to be deliberate. A hug, so innocent and powerful, and creepy.
It's only a few years old but already dated.
Hugs for boys and hugs for girls.
Hugs for comfort.
Hugs for memory.
Hugs for plot.

And as I watched, crying silently and feeling the closeness of grief my husband asked why I watch if it makes me depressed.
"It doesn't make me depressed."
"Wrong word."
"It pulls up the saddnes. I feel sad."
And a moment of truth sounded.
"I'm this close to saddnes all the time."
And unsaid... That's why I have to keep busy, that's why this helps. It's controlled.

And the hugs got to me. And another penny dropped.

My dad can't hug me. I don't remember the last time we did and when he could.
We hug him. Gently and carefully because it can physically hurt him. This fucking disease has stopped my hugs with my dad.