I see his small hand in mine and feel the warmth. Sometimes he grabs my hand, but now it is mostly me that is holding on for dear life. I hold on because he is my baby, the last of my babies. I hold on for fear, I hold on for warmth, I hold on because I can’t bear to let go.
I wonder how long I will be able to go on holding his hand. How long can I make sure that he holds my hand as we walk to school to get his brother? How long before I don’t hold his hand when crossing the street? Do I have to ever let go?
Right now I can still cover his whole hand with mine. I feel the warmth of the little fingers even as they are wiggling out of my grasp. I see the day in my head so clearly, a hand that I can no longer cover with my own. A hand so big that he warms my hand instead of me warming his. I see a time when he is embarrassed to be see holding his mother’s hand, and god forbid that you give him a hug in public.
Right now as I look at this picture of us holding hands on our walk to school I take hope that he will not tire of holding hands with me so soon. I feel the fingers grabbing my hand and dragging me where he wants me to come to see the new train track he build, or the drawing he made. I feel how small his hands still are, and the smoothness of the skin that hasn’t seen 39 1/2 years of life. I wonder how rough my hands must feel to his tiny smooth hands. It is a wonder he wants those hands near him. But hands speak to the life you have lived. My hands show the scars of life, the work I have done, the life I have lived. They still have lots of living left to do and so do his.
I will hold his hand as long as he will let me.
This is the second time I am participating in Heather’s Just Write. If you also want to do some free writing of the extraordinary and ordinary moments in you life, my advice is do it! Head over to Heather’s blog and soak up the beauty of her words and link of the beauty of yours.