His Hands

I was the first person that has loved him to touch his hand. His bright blue eyes would meet light for some time and in this brave new world touch was all he had. With his wrinkly miniature hand he grasped my trembling finger and I felt his hearty grip as he squeezed. Years have passed since then and now his paws are as big as mine. They are thin, smooth and would be flawless if he didn’t chew on his nails. They are in contrast with my sun beat skin, protruding wrinkles and a slight tremble at some fingers. His grip is much stronger now and when we play he’s hurt me and I’ve told him countless times to take it easy on me. I can beat him at a Thumb War but my days are numbered. He talks with his hands like I do and I get a chuckle every time he gets animated and those palms are moving a mile a minute. He reaches out sometimes on a walk and I will never deny him that feeling that I’m there for him.
I could not bear to be without him and not have another chance to feel his hands. That is why the passing of young people hurts so much even when they are not mine.

Truth in Short

Stocky is the word that comes to mind when I see photos of my self as a 10 year old. I was a blocky looking kid with long curly hair, chubby cheeks and lacking in height.
I would lean out in the later years but never reached 6 feet like I wanted to.
That’s why it’s a marvel to look at my gazelle like boy running about the home. He’s got that strong swimmers back and lean long legs that in time will lead his line of sight centimeters past mine. One day I’ll have to look up to my son because that’s what the genes seem to dictate.

Ain’t life funny?