Hands

An eleven-year-old hand made its way into mine today,
and I couldn’t help but think, Yes! One more day.
I know the priceless nature of such a gift,
a gift that could be gone tomorrow when the opinions of peers
overshadow the need for Mom’s approval.
I try to study the feel, the grip, the intensity with which it is given
before it is quietly released.
Are there needs being expressed?
Are there unheard concerns?
Is love being transmitted?
Reciprocated?
Can I save this welcomed embrace, taking it with me into every tomorrow?

My thoughts and questions are then interrupted by yet another hand
that has made its way into mine.
The three squeezes from this bulky grip say more than the giver could ever express verbally.
My four distinct pulses in return,
answer his message I- love-you- too!
It is our little signal, created in a quiet moment-–
you know the kind, when you feel as though heaven has showered you with a quiet glimpse into the real beauty of motherhood--
and you get it, you really do.

Moments later I am directed to the needs of a smallest set of hands.
Unlike the grips before them, these hands are not interested in signals, hidden messages or even comfort.
They simply want to twirl, ‘round and ‘round, holding only a pinkie for support.
Twirl after twirl, spin after spin they beg for more, demanding the attention they so rightfully deserve.

And, because I know that the days of holding these hands are limited,
I don’t let go.
I embrace them all,
preserving a perfect moment to call upon in the future
when my hands, aged and wrinkled, reach for theirs.