I’m mounting the church steps. My favorite greeter is grasping the hand of the person in front of me with a sturdy handshake. I take my turn, clinging to the weathered skin pulled tight over bone and muscle, running my thumb over wrinkles made from years of love and labor. I don’t settle for a handshake, though. Today I claim a hug.
I didn’t expect to see Pete at the church door this morning. I found out a couple days back that the doctor declared it time for hospice. The doctor must not know Pete, know that he’s still standing outside in the fall of the year wrestling handshakes from churchfolk. Winter hasn’t come yet.