It doesn't happen often. She's eight ("and a half, Mom") now, and growing more independent. Well, as independent as 8-year-olds go. But when it does, it halts me. The feel of her hand in mine. The little soft fingers wrapped around my wrinkled adult hand. Innocence and purity secure in my protection and love. I'm not good at living in the moment, being emotionally present at all Continue Reading