The Feel of Her Hand

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 times with my children.  I try.  It takes effort. REALLY being cognitive about it.  I go, go, go.  I’m preoccupied with my to-do lists and their to-do lists, and the tyranny of the urgent.

But when she lets me hold her hand as we cross the street (rare) or at school (even more rare) or side by side at church, I’m all there.  I stop. I feel.  I relish.  I inhale the moment, because someday it will be gone.  Poof.

Until the day in the far-far-future when she says to ME, “Mom, take my hand now…”