Write one leaf about being touched.
Touch - such a unique sensation. More subtle than sight, at least at first, yet stronger than smell. Correctly, though, it blends with all sense - an amalgam of feeling, in every sense of the word. A pat on your head in passing - your father loves you, despite your frequent conflicts. A kiss goodnight - the classic of mothers everywhere. A giant hug, picking you up off the floor - your friends not only miss you, but remind you that they can and will protect you. Head-scritches, platonic or more - stopping words mid-sentence, to be replaced by purring. Massages - relief of tension, physical comfort, letting your mind know that you are safe. Any touch to the neck - a frisson of excitement, wondering what might come next, a zerbert or a bite. They say infants, supplied of every other need, will die from lack of touch. They say that you can tell when a person was abused, or at least neglected, as a child, because of how much every little touch means to them. They say, in a sweetly helpful book, that All Cats Have Asperger’s, both hating to be touched. I met a man once, and sadly only once (so far), who understood how I myself feel about touch - it is to be treasured, relished, and is best for its own sake, and not having to lead to more. He called himself a sensualist - this I shall have to research.
(There is always the fear of the wrong kind of touch, unwanted, violent - that story is for another time.)
