Holding Hands

(Rough lines sketched out in between cooking scrambled eggs and opening cards this morning.)


I remember being smaller,


A bigger hand holding mine.

The feel of being small, and safe, and loved

All in that clasp.

My mother’s long, slender fingers

Pretty nails

Hands that made dinner

Kneaded dough smooth

Formed pie crusts

Baked cookies.


Softened steel.

And her wedding ring flashing gold.

My father’s hand,

A bit rougher, wider

Gentle and capable and strong.

Wrapped around a camera.

My hands resemble his, more than hers.

Short fingers.

Short nails.

Sometimes wrapped around a camera.

Also kneading bread

Forming pie crusts.

Baking cookies.

The other day my daughter and I went to CVS to get apple juice and tissues.

We got out of the car and headed toward the store, and her small hand drifted up and into mine.

Automatically.  It’s the rules, when we’re in a parking lot.

We walked together this way

Her small hand in mine,

And I wondered

What does my hand feel like

To her?

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