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When I was a young man I was moonstruck by a girl named Jean. I maneuvered a date through her step-sister, and it was on the first or second date that we walked side by side. As we walked, I calculated an opportune time for my fingers to touch hers. It was a bold move, and I worried she would think ill of me, but it was rewarded. Without a glance sideways, she put her hand in mine. I felt a thrill, an electric-filled moment still fresh in my memory. We walked, holding hands for some time. She was a lady, and from my farm boy's perspective, well above my station. I held out no real hope, but it was destined that we would one day marry. After that, we most often walked hand-in-hand all the time, wherever we went. Fifty odd years later I sat beside her hospital bed and held that same hand. Miraculously, her hands still felt young and supple. I kissed her hand and her fingers, and told her for the last time that she was my darling girl. Moments later she slipped away. When I consider all the thoughtless things I did, and all the mistakes I made during our time together, walking hand-in-hand was not one of them.
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