Her hand was surprisingly soft. It any culture it would have been true, but surprising because of the field and house work she had participated in, dawn to dusk, everyday for all of the twenty years of her life. My hand by comparison felt like the equivalent of a cobblestone alleyway as she grabbed it to lead me in the dark two-story white plaster house. I ducked through the door she easily walked under and my eyes were suddenly no longer useful. She pulled my hand forward then up, and I did my best to follow, tripping over the stairs and hitting my backpack on the ceiling. It was strange the trust I felt through that bond. Moving uncordinatedly up the stairs through the dark there was only her and I, in that moment, one step at a time, her hand and mine. It was a closeness that evaporated the second we topped the last stair and she flicked on a light, but in that moment we communicated more fully than if we had spoke the same language. We communicated in the language of the body and that is a language all people share.