I read the word "arm" and a song begins in my head, "walking my Baby back home." My mind's eye sees a gent walking down a street with a lady on his arm. Flashes of old black and white romantic comedies start to play. Shy guys, full gowns, starry nights, convertibles, sweeping staircases, big bands.
Catching one on the late night or Saturday afternoon movie. Mother humming along with the songs, visibly enjoining reminiscing. Snippets of tales from her era. Then how she met daddy.
Oh, she's not here any more. Long gone from this world. In her arms was all comfort. Everything soft, loving and warm you can imagine. Daddy comes into view. His arms meant strength and protection. Yet, somehow they empowered me. Daddy never let me hide in them, but rather used them to support me as I tried new things and went new places.
My mind's stroll ends with images to keep misty tears at bay: a grandmother kneeling to wrap up grandchildren in an embrace, chicks scurrying under a hen, a man grabbing a child and lifting them up, spinning and smiling. Then, the face of Jesus. And we are home.