(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
Hands that made dinner
Kneaded dough smooth
Formed pie crusts
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.
Sometimes wrapped around a camera.
Also kneading bread
Forming pie crusts.
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