Her Name Was Grace

Her Name Was Grace Sensitivity is an art. It is not a learned skill, nor shall practice convince anyone it exists. An instinct of genetic making but not necessarily a family trait. A natural occurrence. A human touch that leaves no print on a butterflys wings allowing it to enjoy its flight. It is the worm dug up from the black dirt. Gently it coils in the palm of a hand returned to the earth where it may wiggle away. It is the memory triggered peering through fingers at yellow sunlight. Its heat warms a hand and casts shadows on the ground. Trembling yet softly touching a face. Every feature every flaw draws a picture an image appears. A tear is then felt wiped away by a thumb. A kiss on the forehead, a gentle embrace. The words I am sorry whispered like a secret so close to ones ear. Her name was Grace