The Warmth of His Hand

I feel his palm warm against my arm, a slight movement of his fingers as his hand finally settles.  Tired, I only want to sleep, impatient and silently wishing for him to feed quickly so I can go back to bed. The memory is now barely there, the act of his hand grabbing onto my arm as I breastfeed lost, unappreciated in its simplicity.

It pains me to look back at the moments I let go by without a second glance not understanding how the passing of time is a mirage with seemingly no end in sight.

Years later we are walking through the mall searching for back to school clothes. He places his hand in mine. I slow my pace, savoring the warmth of his skin. I concentrate on how he squeezes my fingers each time he speaks. His skin is still baby soft, a softness that will be gone in another few short years.

Too soon he pulls away his hand to race off with his brother.

In this moment I want nothing more than to grab on and never let it go because now I know someday this tiny hand will be larger than mine, the times for me to hold it growing fewer and farther between.

Today there is no mirage. I now know how swiftly time can pass and I am left with only the fading warmth left by his hand.

One thought on “The Warmth of His Hand

  1. Nicely written! One of those hand holding moments will be the last one, and you won’t know it. We so seldom know when something is the last. You are right to treasure the memory.


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