Two arms to hold. Two arms to lift. Two arms to swing from as a child.
For many years, arms have been a fascination of mine, for reasons of versatility and diversity. I would wager (if I was a betting woman) that the jungle gym we called dad was the origin for this. I remember fondly having him reach down to let us (two at a time) latch our fingers around each of his triceps, only to squeal as he lifted us into the air. His strength, even then, was a wonder.
My father’s arms . . . solid and scarred by use. Some freckles dotted the forearms, as if to frolic in and out of the hair with impish spontaneity. They hoisted me off the ground when I was two or three, clinging to him like a young chimp testing a branch and giggling at the exhilaration of new heights.
They clenched, twisted and applied force to tools on mechanical parts. They worked often as a pair but sometimes covertly solo when administering tickles or arm hair burns. And, when needed, they wrapped around me in a secure and warm bear hug. Ah yes, they opened doors, toyed with my mother and rested across his chest in slumber.
Security, stability, capability . . . arms can be a connecting point from one to another.