Scribbles

As my oldest daughter gets her college acceptance letters and emails, I find myself thinking more of their childhood. The following was a result of a small gesture on the part of my son.

He held my hand for a minute, supporting me after hearing some bad news. His 15-year-old hand, now as large as mine, joined my hand and I flashed on him as a baby. Just born, wrapping his tiny hand around my index finger, trying to figure out why he was out and how this whole touching thing works. A baby, reaching for me, grabbing my hair and pulling to see what would happen. Smoothing his palm on the top of my head, feeling the softness and exploring. A toddler with a death grip as he tries to stand up and walk without falling. I’m the only thing between him and a crash. A little boy, walking to school for the first time. Asking if he will make any friends, will the people be nice there. Hanging on a second longer than the other kids, then slipping away to join his class. A little bigger boy, starting to fuss when I insist he still hold my hand to cross the street. Talking about soccer, football, basketball - anything with a ball - pulling his hand away to make gestures, to show me what he means. Then no more hand holding. I’m lucky that he’s still okay with kisses good-bye and hello. Then today, he held my hand. Warm palm, a few calluses from beginning weightlifting. But nice. My boy.