A handful of joy

Have you ever tried to pick a lump of smooth sand on the beach ? I have done it so many times, and every time it feels like a whole new beginning. An absolute start. But then it starts to trickle out of your hand, through the fingers. And you thought you will have that lump in your hand for ever. Even when you knew practically that lump of sand can never stay in your hand, you held on to it.

Somehow I had held on to a lump of sand in my hands in the early years of my life. And that lump of sand of was the prized part of this earth. It was in my hands. And probably that lump of sand hated it that I thought that she was in my hands. She hated that feeling that 'I' 'have' the sand in 'my' hands. The sand thought of my hands as a cage. And so those little silica particles, sparkling bright, smooth and sweet cold feeling of it , just found a space between my fingers.

I always have thought that my hands were soft. The best palms to read, kiss and hold. But this nature - sand is older, sweeter and more soft than these palms with infinite fallacies. So the sand particles didn't find my palms caring enough. They left. Trickle by trickle.

Sand you would know is the coolest and most soothing during the hottest part of the day. Picking up a lump feels so soothing and lovely in the mid day sun. It brings you the soothing feeling to your palms. The cold and soft touch to your tough palms. The problem is I picked up that lump just before the afternoon. The sand may have not been ready for it, it was disturbed probably. My fault.

You know that feeling when the sand trickles out of your hand ? Grain by grain, between your fingers, tickling your senses. And all the time you feel good about it. You feel the illusion that the sand will still be in your palms. Then those first grains come between your fingers, and they tickle you. I have felt that feeling of the grains of sand between the fingers, ironically and painfully it is great. Then come the next few grains, and more , and it just keeps feeling better. Even when your palms start feeling the emptiness. It becomes cold from cool and then your hand is empty.

No lump of sand is there. It just trickles out. Back to earth, to be picked by some other palm. And those who are smarter, pick it up with an unnatural plastic bucket. And you will hate that feeling that sand loves to stay in an a plastic bucket rather that palms with blood flowing through them. Blood which comes from the heart. Only the bucket had more space to offer.

All of that is done. The sand is finally out. All that now remains on your palms is dirt. Which you just look at, and hope and wonder about where the sand went. You just keep thinking how that sweet cold lump of sand felt. It's not no longer there. There's only dirt. The problem is that I can't dust off that dirt. Because I love that dirt in my hands. No matter how much I bend down to earth, that same lump of sand can't come back to my hands. I miss you.