I was excited the first time I held her hand. She took my hand in hers when I reached out. Encouraging. It was, after dinner I think, that I held her hand. It took a few tries to get a date, but when I did, it was for dinner, a dinner invitation–I would cook myself.
Go with what you know: work with what you have.
I know how to cook and I have a good recipe.
After dinner we walked to the playground. It was a very long walk. We held hands, talked and swung on the swings; those really tall swings that are inverted arcs of stiff rubber on rust colored smooth chains at least a story high.
We swung. We talked. That’s how it got started.
Yesterday I held a baby’s hand. He was less than 24 hours old. He is my son’s son. We held hands. He took my hand in his. Or to be precisely more accurate, he took part of my hand, my index finger, into his full-hand powerful grip. I’ll never know the whole story about how that got started, but I have a good idea it started with hands, holding hands.
That small, brand new human being lay still in the crook of my arm, in my big leather chair, with a stomach full of completely satisfying Mother’s milk, this first day of his earthly adventure.
We held hands. It was exciting.