My Hands

His little wet hand reached up for my finger; he held on tightly. That finger was his lifeline to the world, thread to the large universe of choice. On his way to the bus stop, his little hand held mine, afraid of the big school. But shortly, my hand wasn’t needed at all, as he looked forward to books, bats and balls.

Then sometimes, my hand would pat his head when hot, smooth his covers and point out the way. Hands held, taught, led and loved.

One day he walked out to his car and said goodbye, his big hand covered mine and the other held the map with lines drawn to LA, Scottsdale and Bogota. He went off to see; he looked back longingly.

When my husband left for answers not found, love called my boy home. His hands had strength where mine were week; our hands entwined new lives to seek.

Palm trees and blue water beckoned him next, his car was packed, expectations set. His hand now wise and experienced caressed my cheek, no words to speak.

I remembered – the smell of a newborn boy, the sight of a mud-smeared teen, the hug of a tall, strong man off to see the world. My hands opened to love and were loved back.

Circa 1996 ~ to my wonderful Son

​Story inspirations and ideas are my own. Thus, positive reactions are welcome. Criticism not.