It was this game we played in elementary school. We'd close our eyes and lay our heads down on our desks. The person who was "It" would walk around the room and lay their hand on the heads of 7 people. I lay there expectantly each time. I loved the feel of the strange hand bearing down gently on my head, brushing against my hair. I was a sheep in a play once, wrapped in a tangled ball of yarn, and it was the same sensation, a hand pressing down on me. It's funny. Something about closed eyes and darkness, about simple touch serving a simple purpose. It was the waiting for it, the wondering if it would come, because it didn't always. It was a craving, pure and simple, a yearning and reaching out from my body and heart.
I remember it when I'm in yoga class now, decades later, and experiencing the same anticipation of soft connection and touch when the teacher comes around and adjusts my posture, laying hands on my back or hips. Is it the anonymity, I wonder? The darkness, the whisper?