Sometimes I think about the day when she will no longer reach for my hand the way she has over these past few years. In a crowded store or amusement park, when we cross the street and in the middle of the night and comes to my room and pulls back the covers getting as close as she can as she wraps my arm around her quickly growing body. This morning when she wakes up she wants to watch TV before we eat and get dressed for church. She’s smart. She asks daddy and he hands her the remote and gets up to let the dog out. Then it’s just us. Me and her. Like it used to be before we met our prince charming.
I look at her. Eyes glued to the TV. “Can I hold your hand? I ask like an infatuated teenager hesitant to make the first move.
“Yes” she says. Eyes still glued.
I reach over and she reaches back. Our fingers lock together and we squeeze gently. For a moment she glances at me and smiles. We lay there holding hands. Her eyes glued and my eyes watery. Her hand fits perfectly in mine and she holds it sometimes on her own and sometimes just because her mama asked her to. Her small fingers and hands although not as small as they once were are the fingers and hands my mommy dreams were and continue to be made of. I never want to forget what this feels like. They joy something so little as a small hand resting in my gives me. The fact that such a sweet moment can move this mama to tears. Happy tears. Grateful tears. Longing tears. Praying for moments like these to keep coming. I think about the day when she may not want to hold hands anymore. I hope it will never come but regardless I’m hanging on to this moment and to ensure that I don’t forget I write.Tweet