These hands which have always grasped mine also comforted my mother as a child and once tenderly caressed my grandfather’s face, and patiently cared for my great-grandmother’s hair as she slowly died from pancreatic cancer. And, there is a strange feeling that overcomes one when you are a in a room with a living, breathing memory….when those memories are wrapped up in the square palm and faint lines of a loved one’s touch: 83 years of history entwining itself around my fingertips…touching my own.