Yesterday you held my hand. They’re both in school, I reminded myself. You held my hand. I’ve waited for this moment an infinitesque five years. You held my hand. What can I possibly make for lunch? You stroked my fingers. Did I remember to switch on the dryer? You deftly clutched my loosening grip. Why won’t Nibbles write? It’s my fault. I’m a horrible mom. You wince as my claws dig deep.

The construction workers grinned as we skipped across the rubble. It must be my batman meets boho-fall-queen shirt. I can’t believe I wore this on my first date with you. Date! We’re on a date. We’re on a date? A date. A defined set of moments. A deliberate subset of moments to keep one afloat in the tsunami of time.

I grabbed your hand, like a newborn does a pinkie. I escaped in your hand, like Nibbles at the school doors. I held your hand, like a second shot at life.

Advertisements