holding their hands
There are so many things that happen on any given day with my boys that would make for great memories. The unfortunate thing is, I pretty much forget everything.
Countless times I’ve seen cute little babies and have thought; ‘I don’t even remember my boys at that age.’ Or the best is when my husband has these great memories of things the boys used to do and either I stare into space trying to collect this memory from a magical vault I have stored in my head that holds special moments or the description my husband has laid out for me was so vivid it almost seems as though I am remembering the moment, but I’m not, it is just his description bouncing around in my mind.
But there is one thing I think I will always remember; holding their hands. Even my older guy still lets me hold his hand. He is 5 going on 6 and when he holds my hand it feels like the purest love I have ever felt. His thin fingers going in between mine. His soft skin feels so warm against what I like to call my old lady skin. I try so hard to always hold my little men’s hands; and most of the time they let me. This is one of the most joyous moments for me. Something so simple that they don’t even realize it is happening or the joy that they are bringing me.
It is also now, that I realize why it was my dad would always grab my hand. It never seemed to matter where we were or what we were doing, he would always try to hold it. He would stare at it as if there was a treasure map on it and he had this glazed over look in his eyes as if he was teleporting to a different place. As I got older I would pull it away and look at him and laugh. He would smile at me and try and grab it back. In my 20s, I would laugh and say; ‘come on dad!’ He would just leave me alone and try again later on in the day to get ahold of it again. In my 30s, this game continued. Me; never understanding what it was with my hands!
His large working man’s hands would almost completely cover my hands which are not dainty at all. His cracked skin from years and years of laying bricks and rocks and building homes and buildings; seem to be so delicate as he tried to hold my hand between his. Never would I have thought what it meant to him to just do something so small as to just hold my hand. Now he is no longer with us physically. But as I hold my children’s hands, I realize what he was trying to do. Holding my hand was his window to our past. To our youth and the times where I needed him and could help me with the little things in life; and our troubles may have seemed difficult at the time, but they were much easier than the current issues.
I was lucky to have my father with me with the birth of my two boys; my boys were lucky enough to meet my father. And I was lucky enough to be able to see him hold their hands. So, now as I hold my children’s hands, I realize how powerful something so small can be. The joy of such a small and quiet act, and the ease of it.
I do pray that as my boys grow they will continue to hold my hand. Even if we get into a laughing match as I did with my father. Because one day I pray that it acts as a window for me as it did for my dad and ends up meaning just as much to the boys as it did to me.
Remember to hold those little hands, they truly are the key to it all.