abbracciami, abraços, Salāmu `Alaykum

Dr. Gary Chapman tells all about the languages of love.  Acts of Service, Quality Time, Words of Affirmation, Receiving Gifts and, of course, Physical Tough make up the list.  Hugging, and the many emotions that come with it, makes up a language all its own.  Many types of hugs abound.  There is the Side Arm Hug used after an awkward date, hugging someone you don't know very well or perhaps you don't remember their name.  One arm around the neck, hips barely touching, "Hey....you...Well good to see you...buddy..." There's the Bro Hug, grasping hands and slapping each other hard on the back.  The faire la bise is quite common in France, also appropriated by those in the New York and Los Angeles Area, where two air kisses are given on either side of the face, lips not quite touching skin.  This is usually accompanied by a "Hellllooo daaahling."  There's the kind of hugs my Italian grandpa gives whenever he comes to visit, picking us up and almost crushing your bones.  In Afghanistan, the greeting As-Salāmu `Alaykum (Peace be with you) is accompanied by a nod and a hug between people of the same gender.  There's the Wrap Around Hug with one arm on top, one reaching around the back.  Squeeze!  This hug is close to the Master Hug, but not quite as fully committed. 

            A Master Hug, well, it's something that's fully committed.  No holding back.  It's sharing a little bit of yourself.  What does that feel like?  The sharing of souls?  Does it feel like pyaar karna,  jhappi, étreindre, or umarme.  A Salāmu `Alaykum, abraços, dakishimeru or abbracciami? Can it be captured with a word?  Is it an ink blot, soaking the page, spreading tendril into the paper fiber, veins of love?  Is it a thread in a woven rug, strengthening the whole, but different from the rest, still unique and beautiful on its own?  The moment right before a balloon is pricked with a needle?  A flock of birds against a sunset?  The fog of the morning just before dawn?  The cool stillness?  The golden light bathing green valleys and ruby grapes of the Tuscan countryside?  The skein of liquid melting into a river at night, swallowing the darkness, enveloping the light from the stars, from the shops, from the two on the bridge, the two in the cafe, the two on the train, the two in the museum, in the church, in front of the paintings, the sculptures, the city, the night, the sky, the stone?  The warmth?  The glow?  Or is it the emptiness, the absences, the space between?