a tactile memory

My husband had pneumonia when he was nine years old, a year or so before the miracle drug, penicillin, was discovered and doctors became gods. Bill had a lung resection: the surgeon went into his right lung, under the shoulder blade, between the ribs, and cut a hole to drain the accumulating fluid that was threatening to drown that thin little boy. I'm sure my medicine isn't accurate; I not sure whether a rib was removed or not, but some of it was. That's what resection means: 

(Resection, the removal by surgery of all or part of an organ or other body structure)

Anyway, Bill survived with a modest scar: an indentation under his right shoulder blade that fit the middle finger of my left hand when I put my arms around him.  

If you own a Mac desktop, you'll know that you turn it on by pushing a button at the back on the bottom frame.  The button is flush with the body of the Mac and you have to feel for it; I feel it and push it with the middle finger of my left hand, and I think of Bill every time I do it. Isn't that nice? 

Now, if he could just do something with auto-correct.